


Subspecies: Bloodlines

by Memoriam



Series: Subspecies: Bloodstained [2]
Category: Subspecies
Genre: Gen, Horror, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-31
Updated: 2008-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 102,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memoriam/pseuds/Memoriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Subspecies: Bloodpact. Michelle finds it ever more difficult to tell friend from foe as she finds herself trapped by a game in which hope is the deadliest weakness of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For one terrible moment, she thought she'd lost them.

Dropping to her knees with a muffled groan, the young woman felt along the gritty sidewalk, wishing that she'd remembered to bring her gloves as the chill of the concrete set her palms tingling with discomfort. She could barely see in the overcast darkness as it was, but the shadow of the building looming behind her rendered the gloom almost impenetrable; she scanned hopefully for a glimmer of metal, wished fruitlessly for the illumination of a passing car's headlights. She'd heard the ringing chime as they'd bounced along the sidewalk; she had no idea what she would do if they'd managed to fall into the sewer grate.

But in the first bit of luck she'd had all evening, her fingers brushed against the ridged metal dangling from the curb, and she snatched the keys up gratefully, fisting her hand around them. Awkward in her heavy winter coat, she levered herself back to her aching feet, one of her knees protesting the strain with a thin lance of pain. Gritting her teeth, she made her way back to the restaurant's entrance and, after a moment's fumbling with numb fingers, got the key slotted into the lock and twisted it home. She scarcely knew why they bothered to lock up; a brick through the large, plate glass windows and the restaurant was open to the world, as the local hoodlums had demonstrated on a handful of occasions. For all the good it had done them; the boss had installed a safe that the register was emptied into every night after the first incident, but even before that it hadn't been worth the effort to pilfer.

Still, she didn't think it was worth her job to question those decisions; wearying as it was, she was glad of the income, if not the work. Things could be much worse. Tucking the keys away, she fisted her hands as deeply into her pockets as they would go, burrowing for warmth; shouldering her purse, she turned and set off for home, thinking longingly of the nice hot soak that awaited her.

She might have been pretty, were it not for the lines that privation had etched around her mouth, the heavy bags exhaustion had left beneath her eyes. The tousled hair shoved rudely into a bun was a rich shade of blonde; her high cheekbones spoke of good breeding, and her blue eyes might have sparkled with wit and humor were they not dulled with fatigue. Waiting tables for ten hours a day did not agree with her. She'd had plans, once--dreams, really. She'd meant to enroll in the university, learn how to paint; she'd even picked out the name of the gallery she was going to own, had doodled endless variations what the sign was going to look like in her notebooks.

But none of that had quite worked out, somehow; a bad decision here, a lack of ambition there... she wasn't sure how it had all slipped through her fingers, but it had, and all she had to show for it was the late shift at the diner in one of the worst parts of Bucharest. She had no idea where she wanted to go with her life, any longer; she had no idea what she meant to do with herself; no real idea of why she even bothered any more.

She also had absolutely no idea of what was about to happen to her.

The man's name was Vaya, though he wasn't Russian. He really hadn't meant her any ill will, at least not to begin with; he had stopped in for a cup of coffee while he waited, and her faded loveliness had caught his eye. He hadn't bothered to strike up a conversation, as his thoughts had been consumed by other matters; he was in trouble, and if things didn't go well this evening, he would be doomed. His line of work did not tend to be particularly forgiving, and he had made a very bad mistake. The meeting he anticipated so desperately would probably put everything to rights; his anxious desire to convince himself of that was inescapably evident.

The contact he had arranged to meet had never shown, and that betokened nothing good. He was frantic, almost overriden by panic; and, as desperate men were wont to do, he was now making poor decisions. On a good night, he never would have dreamed of wasting his time on a poor, tired waitress; there was unlikely to be much of a margin to it.

But this was a very, very bad night, and his need to take some action to save himself--money, more money than the woman he followed saw in three months, in all likelihood--was overwhelming; his need to externalize the fear and helplessness that he felt burned through the night so fiercely that it sent Michelle Morgan stumbling from the shadows, unable to reconcile it.

She cursed under her breath as she shrank back against the side of a building, knuckling her eyeballs in a futile attempt to drive away the sensations. One she could handle; but the strain of following both of them, attempting to parse that sickly cocktail of despair and desperation, was too much for her uncertain control. She'd only meant to touch the man briefly, just enough to be sure that this situation was in fact as bad as it appeared to be; just enough to be able to follow him if she were to lose sight of him. Instead the psychic stench of his anguish and dread had pierced her mind like an arrow through a swan's breast, and had brought her to earth just as surely.

She shook her head, trying to clear it; she doubted she had much time to waste. Though the man may simply have stumbled upon it, Michelle had chosen her hunting ground with care: this far into the ghetto, screams would not attract attention until they became completely impossible to ignore, and she did not mean to allow him the opportunity to turn that fact to his advantage.

Pulling her raincoat more tightly around her shoulders, Michelle hurried after them on foot; no need to whisper through the darkness when they were still so close she could practically smell them. The cadence of each of their footsteps was completely distinct in her ears, her focus narrowed to pinpoint accuracy. Hers were little more than a shuffle, yet steady: she was barely conscious of the world around her, lost in her own thoughts as she trudged towards home. His were lighter, a touch faster; he walked on the balls of his feet, tense and ready.

They had gotten a few blocks away while Michelle had paused to gather her thoughts; she could just make out his back, easy enough to pick out on the empty street. She quickened her pace; as deserted as the avenue might be, she did not think he would try anything while so exposed, but she couldn't quite anticipate what he meant to do, and it bothered her. She followed intently, her rapid strides eating up the distance in silence; she realized that she was about to find out what his plans were when his footsteps hastened.

Even her attenuated vision wasn't enough to overcome the distance entirely; though she saw the blur of movement, it was mostly the woman's choked-off squawk of dismay echoing from the walls that let Michelle know he had just dragged her into the alley. She hadn't expected him to try anything so bold, and perforce needed to act quickly. Closing her eyes, she set her jaw and--_moved._

She tore through the night like a slim dark dagger, flickering beneath the streetlights as she sped toward them. It took little more than the blink of an eye for her to cover the blocks between them; she scarcely had time to appreciate the heady, almost giddy sense of disembodient before she restored herself at the mouth of the alley. Michelle had chosen correctly: he snatched at the strap of the woman's purse, hauling her towards him with one arm raised to strike her. Unfortunately for him, Michelle had timed her landing precisely. As her feet became solid beneath her, she transferred the momentum of her brief flight into her charge, and slammed into him with bone-breaking force.

The woman cried out, an unhappy sound of fear and pain, but Michelle paid it no heed as she hurried to subdue her victim. The man bucked and fought with startling ferocity, nowhere near as disoriented by the abrupt attack as she might have expected; the fist he drove into her ribs would have been enough to crush the breath from her lungs, had there been any to begin with. She grabbed his wrist and wrenched his arm back with a dry snap, eliciting a rough grunt of pain that was rudely silenced as she slammed his head into the unforgiving bricks.

The brittle ache of hunger had sharpened to a gnawing urgency as soon as she had gotten close enough for his smell to fill her nostrils. The urge to fall on him and feast, his form sagging limply in her grip, was nearly insurmountable; instead she dropped him to the pavement with a careless thud, forcing herself to return her attention to the woman she'd rescued.

"Ma'am," she finally managed, the haze of bloodlust nearly overwhelming her still-halting grasp on Romanian, "ma'am, are you alright?"

The woman sat awkwardly on the ground, braced by her arms; a few strands of hair had come loose from her bun to hang untidily before her face. But they were not enough to obscure the stark panic that informed her features, as the bulk of her coat was unable to disguise the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Michelle's appetite stirred at the sight of such easy prey, but she quashed it savagely, angry with herself. The woman had just been attacked, had probably been knocked down in the scuffle; of _course _she was afraid.

Bending down, Michelle looped her fingers through the strap of the woman's purse; it had fallen nearly at her feet. "Ma'am, you should go home," she said, thirst gumming her mouth enough that the words were difficult to form. The woman flinched as she lifted the bag; scuttled backwards a few inches when Michelle proffered it. "Ma'am, _please._ It's alright. Just go," she said, extending the purse invitingly.

But whatever she saw in Michelle's face was evidently not worth braving to retrieve the bag's contents. She scrambled to her feet, backing away as she raised her arms in a placating gesture. The frantic stream of words that flew from her mouth was too rapid for Michelle to follow, but she caught _give _and _take _and _go_; her shoulders sagging in disappointment, she realized the woman thought she had simply fallen prey to a different mugger.

The dismay quickly shifted to irritation: no one could blame her for being alarmed, but how on earth could the woman mistake Michelle's intentions? _"Ma'am_," she snarled, intending to cut her off and talk some sense into her, but the guttural command in her voice had a much greater effect upon the woman; she froze, silenced in mid-protestation, her mouth falling slack as she regarded Michelle in rapt, blinking wonder.

Whatever she had planned to say died on Michelle's tongue as she took in the strange alteration to the woman's demeanor; the sudden switch was eerie, a marionette with its strings cut. She extended the bag to the woman once more, her movements slow and cautious, but elicited no response. The woman's gaze was faraway and dreamy, but intently fixed on Michelle's face; the distance there was due to her contemplation of whatever she thought she saw. _Epilepsy, _she thought, but immediately dismissed the notion; this was no seizure.

With a prickle of unease running down her spine, she stepped forward, peering at the woman's face. Was she simply so frightened she had... stopped? Was this some bizarre attempt at playing dead in the hope of being left alone? Had her panic at a mere mugging really driven her into catatonia? It seemed absurd, but there was no mistaking the sheer _vacancy_ that had abruptly stolen over her; there was no cognizance of her surroundings in those bright blue eyes.

“Ma'am, take your purse,” Michelle said in the clearest Romanian she could muster, offering the bag once more. This time the woman reached out with a loose-limbed, awkward movement and wrapped her fingers around the dangling strap; Michelle let go, and the bag thumped to the ground. The woman took no notice; she merely continued to regard Michelle with an empty gaze. Michelle snapped her fingers before the woman's eyes. Nothing.

The skin at the back of her neck crawling with apprehension, Michelle regarded her helplessly. She couldn't just push the woman back out onto the thoroughfare and hope for the best, but she wasn't exactly in a position to... what? Call her an ambulance? She inhaled a lungful of the bitterly chill air, hoping it would revivify her, and shut her eyes; when she opened them again, she regarded the world with a kind of sight that the woman before her could never dream of sharing.

Life itself flickered before her. The teeming mass in the city was almost overwhelming, but she had become more adept at blocking it out; adept enough to focus mostly on what was before her. The man she had sought still lived, a bright spark jittery with pain and fear; the woman before her was... normal. Utterly, perfectly normal. As far as Michelle's preternatural senses were able to discern, she might simply have been asleep.

“_No,”_ Michelle breathed, taking an inadvertent step back as the true enormity of the thought that had just occurred to her seeped into her being. It was ridiculous. It was impossible. It made an alarming amount of sense.

Legends generally had at least a grain of truth at their hearts.

She shook her head, drawing her perceptions back until they were scarcely more than mortal. It made no difference. The woman's eyes were as empty as the grave.

“Ma'am,” she whispered, utterly uncertain of what to do. She could tell her to go home... but what if she did? What if she shuffled back to her apartment with the same dead-eyed incomprehension? She'd be prey to what Michelle had meant to rescue her from... she'd scuff her purse, dragging it along like that, Michelle thought with a sudden, insane burst of hilarity.

What if she stood outside the door, unable to figure out what to do next—unable to do anything without instruction?

The cold, primal _revulsion of_ the idea chased away the brief spectre of humor, and Michelle clenched her hands, willing her brain to provide some kind of solution. She'd done this, somehow; she had to be able to undo it. _Not necessarily, _some rebellious part of her brain whispered. _There's all sorts of things we can do that can't be undone._

Death was only the least of them.

Confused and increasingly frightened, Michelle raised a hand and snapped her fingers in the woman's face. “Wake up,” she said, snapping her fingers once more, unable to keep the rising, frustrated anger from her voice. “Wake _up._”

Nothing. Of course. It had been foolish to hope for such an easy resolution. Michelle reached out, meaning to take the woman by the shoulders and _shake _her out of her stupor, if it was possible; but before she could close the gap, those pretty blue eyes blinked in confusion. The woman's face registered surprise, shading quickly into astonishment; her face contorted in what might have been fear before she whirled and raced from the alley, fleeing as quickly as her high-heels would carry her.

Nonplussed, Michelle froze, her arms still outstretched before her. She had a few seconds to congratulate herself on solving the problem, however she had managed it, before the warm, stinking mass of flesh crashed into her with a broken groan.

Had she not been so far out of balance, she would not have so much as stumbled; as it was, she had to scramble for her footing, an awkward dance that led them perilously close to the mouth of the alley. Once she had gathered herself she quickly forced him back the way they'd come, scarcely noticing how impossibly easy it was to do. Fisting a hand into her assailant's hair, she jerked his head back. Though the blood from his head wound obscured his face with a gruesome mask of crimson, there was no mistaking Vaya, her intended for this evening; she was merely surprised that he had been able to stand up after the blow she'd dealt him.

He grunted and wheezed, rough, choking syllables that might have been an attempt at speech; she could never bear to listen. Seizing the wrist of the arm she'd broken, she spun him around and wrenched it up behind his back, eliciting a hoarse screech of pain; loud, far too loud. Her vision was narrowing into a hazy tunnel, her mouth drying along with it; the urge to get it over with becoming almost overwhelming, but she forced herself to remain as calm as she could. Her free hand darted into the pocket of her trench coat, fingers wrapping around the ridged hilt of the knife she'd secreted in the torn lining; the rip widened with a soft purr as she wrenched it free.

Shoving him against the damp brick wall, she pinned his wrist against his back with her knee, hopping awkwardly for balance as he struggled against her. She buried her left hand in his hair once more, yanking his head back at a cruel angle. She couldn't falter; she couldn't let herself be squeamish; _she couldn't do this, what could she have been thinking when--_

The blade sinking into his throat cut the thought off as easily as it ended his life.

He gurgled horribly, and she nearly dropped him when the first hot gush of blood spurted from his violated neck, spraying her with gore; she hadn't realized that there'd be so _much._ Dark, arterial blood gouted from the wound with each beat of his failing heart, painting the wall with his abrupt, miserable death. The force with which it pumped was almost unreal; who would have guessed that a person had such potential within them?

And she was wasting it.

The knife clattering against the ground as she dropped it, she pulled him close once more, his bulk sagging in her arms, and her lips closed over the ragged slash she'd made in his throat. There was a moment of the overpowering odor of his skin; of cloying nausea as thick, oily copper flooded her mouth; of self-loathing as he shuddered, whimpering in her embrace.

But only a moment.

She suspected that she would never grow used to this, not if she lived for a thousand years; hate and bliss and disgust and ecstasy and horror and satiation and sorrow and heat and murder and--

\--and--

\--_life._ With every swallow, she could feel the warm throb of survival pervading her, granting her power and strength; with every greedy mouthful, it became easier to convince herself that her actions were their own justification, that she _deserved _this. She wasn't a monster, she was just _different_; no one who knew this kind of exaltation could condemn her actions, no matter how appalling they might seem. It was only now, in the culmination of the ancient dance of predator and prey, that she could think these kinds of thoughts; and only for the few brief moments that she was capable of thought at all.

Michelle might have stayed that way for hours, coaxing the last weak squirts of vitality from her victim; time became as much of a meaningless nuisance as anything else, when she was transported in the ecstasies of feeding. Anything might have happened; someone might have been able to sneak up beside her, unnoticed until they began pounding the stake into her back, so consumed was she. But none of that happened; it was the squeal of rusted metal that made her release the man's throat with a gasp of surprise.

She found that she had sunk to her knees, supporting the man's cooling body against her chest; his arms tangled with her legs, making her eyeblink rise and turn awkward and ungainly. Confusion and a dull anger hazed her thoughts as she struggled to focus herself, to return to the wider world; stupid to have let her guard down, as she always did, but even more stupid to dare disturb her--

Limned in shadows, Radu Vladislas perched elegantly upon the dumpster behind her, his hands dangling between his thighs; the sound she had heard had been him raising one half of its lid.

She exhaled shakily, raising a hand to her breast, startled and dismayed. She should have known—should have realized he'd—but it was so much nicer to pretend--

“By all means,” he rumbled; his shaggy hair obscured his features, but there was no mistaking the note of amusement in his gravelly voice. “Continue.”

“No, I--” She licked her lips clean of their greasy coating of blood. “I—he's cold,” she whispered, looking away from them both. Such a simple description, cold; like cup of tea left to sit for too long, or a leftover meal. It sounded sane and sensible, almost tidy. It did not at all sound like something said in reference to the corpse that lay at her feet. Not at all like the aftermath of slaughter.

As always, once the first hot rush of vitality loosened its grip upon her, the regret began to creep in. It didn't matter. She couldn't afford the luxury of self-pity; not, at least, until the immediate necessities were taken care of. Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced the yawning abyss of misery that gaped within her to close its jaws; opening them once more, she made herself take stock of the situation. Details were much easier to confront.

 

Her grand scheme had not worked out quite as well as she'd hoped—there was no mistaking the fact that some dreadful violence had taken place in the alley—but that might simply have been due to a lack of practice. The wall was splashed with blood; her coat was ruined. That was fine. She could get another. As far as the authorities would be able to tell, this had merely been the site of a particularly grisly mugging; no teethmarks, no gouges from nails... except perhaps at the man's wrist, but that would probably be viewed as normal evidence of struggle. Probably. But the most important thing, a reason for her actions far more pressing than avoiding the curiosity of the authorities... that had yet to be determined.

 

Numbly, she forced herself to sink back to the ground, kneeling on the long tails of her coat. This wasn't as bad as the frantic part of her mind screamed that it was; this was merely checking the outcome of an experiment, only a little different than any of the other labwork she'd done in her past. _Gloves, _she thought, as she reached out for the man's shoulder. _Gloves, next time._

 

The body flopped onto its back with a queer, boneless roll; the unnaturalness of that movement was almost enough to make her quail, but she forced herself to lean forward. It surprised her—pleasantly so—to see just how normal the man appeared, when considered from the chin up. No sunken features, no terrified expression, no streaks of gore; his eyes were half-lidded, but he might have been dozing. He wasn't, of course; but neither was he stirring, for which she was too grateful to be ashamed. In her limited experience, it seemed to be an instantaneous transition; if it hadn't happened by now, it probably wasn't going to. Probably.

 

Murder was bad enough. She could not bear to have any more damnation on her conscience.

“Radu,” she whispered, barely able to force the name past her numb lips. She hated to do it; even the need for such important information as this was a weakness she feared exposing to him. “How can I...”

He was crouched beside her before she had a chance to finish framing her thought; the brush of his sleeve against hers made her flinch. She would never get used to the way he moved; awkward and ungainly, until he was suddenly faster than thought. _It didn't matter. _“How do I tell if he's... really gone?”

“Have you not made certain?” His voice was far too close; she expected to feel his lips against her ear at any moment, but she did not dare pull away.

“I think so,” she made herself reply. “But I want to be _sure._”

 

He made a hoarse noise in the back of his throat; she could not tell if it was meant to be contemplative or censorious. She simply knelt, refusing to think of anything but the forthcoming answer, letting her vision grow hazy with inattention. But her eyes snapped back into focus as he reached out for the man's throat; the sight of his inhumanly long fingers, one claw extended to pull apart the ragged lips of the knife slash, was enough to raise her gorge. She clenched her jaw shut and swallowed thickly, turning her head to stare fixedly at a clean spot on the brick wall before her. She could not lose the meal she'd wreaked such havoc to gain; she couldn't bear the thought of what Radu might do to her if she did.

 

His shoulder brushed hers again as he shifted his weight. He slipped his hands beneath the crumpled body and hoisted it up as if it weighed nothing; she sidled away in disgust as its foot dragged across her knee. She breathed a soft sigh of relief as it vanished from her field of sight; relief that was quickly stolen from her as she heard the muffled clang of the body striking the metal side of the dumpster.

 

_I can't do this._

 

_I have to do this._

Unaware that she was now trembling slightly, she rose to her feet, keeping her eyes to the wall, and shrugged out of the coat. It was so heavily stained she had difficulty finding a dry spot on which to wipe her hands; she had to turn it inside out and use the frayed lining to wipe her chin. The blood had spurted so fiercely that it had managed to spatter the shoulder of her dress even beneath the overgarment, but there was nothing to be done for it now. Balling it up, she stooped to retrieve the knife; unable to put it off any longer, she turned to face Radu.

 

He stood beside the dumpster, tall and impossibly gaunt; she could feel the weight of his gaze like a brand against her skin. He said nothing as she crossed the alley and deposited the coat in the garbage; but he reached out to catch the hand that held the knife as she turned away, his fingertips cool and leathery against the stolen warmth that suffused her skin.

 

“What is the meaning of this?”

 

The question was asked so softly that she could read no emotion in his tone; dangerous ground. She risked a quick glance at his face; his eyes were lost in their deep hollows, and the harsh, alien planes of his face were completely impassive. _I can't _do _this. I'm not a... a mad _dog,_ to go around biting people's throats out._ “I...” She had to say something. Anything. “The kinds of wounds we make, I... thought people might get curious. The police. This way it just looks like... killings. And I... won't have any more accidents.” The loss of her inadvertent fledgling ached anew at the mere thought; a shocking pang of grief for someone she had ever even known. Yet another unhappiness to add to her growing collection; but one of the few she could stand to think of.

 

He made a gruff, noncommittal noise. Raising her hand, he twisted her wrist slightly, and she watched in horrified fascination as his long, pointed tongue caressed the flat of the blade, licking it clean. She'd felt that rough, catlike surface more than she had ever wished to, and almost believed she could hear its faint rasp against the metal. His eyelids drooped in unfeigned pleasure; when his mouth closed and they opened again, he was regarding her with a look that was almost coy. “Do you truly fear such things?”

 

_Don't you? _But then, why should he? He had survived countless nights with a fine, ferocious disregard for human society; there was no reason he should behave any differently now. Did he not understand what a different place the world had become since he had first started hunting its shadows—or did he simply not care? Her mouth moved soundlessly as she sought vainly for an answer that he would accept; there was no way to tell what he did or did not know, and she did not wish to expose herself to the wrath of his ignorance.

 

Radu smiled, then, and gently divested her of the knife; it disappeared within the folds of his coat. “Walk with me,” he said mildly.

 

“What?”

 

“Come.” He extended a hand to her, his fingers spidery and bone-pale in the moonlight, each of them bearing a fourth joint, save the pinky—the one she had ripped from him with her bare hands. She could not bring herself to grasp them, so she laid her fingers lightly on his forearm. He raised his arm, giving her his elbow, and gently escorted her from the alley.

 

Michelle could not imagine what he could be about as they turned the corner onto the sidewalk, their footfalls silent. The air was so cold the breath would have steamed from her nostrils, had she been breathing; she began with a guilty start, unnerved by how difficult it was to maintain an action that had once been as necessary as... she snorted with bitter amusement, unable to finish the thought. She'd have to start wearing a muffler or a scarf when she went out, lest she inadvertently give herself away.

 

She felt terribly exposed, though there was no one abroad to see them; she could hear movement at the end of the next block, but the people responsible for the sounds were far enough away to be dim outlines, even to her. She hoped whatever urge of Radu's they were currently gratifying would be satisfied before they reached them; she doubted he intended to pass by with a friendly nod. This was the sort of neighborhood she would have been terrified to set foot in while she still lived; a habitual thread of tension ran through her even now.

He pulled her a little closer, carefully fisting his long fingers and tucking his hand beneath his coat; his other hand was already in his pocket. His head was lowered, his long, russet-brown hair falling forward to obscure his face; it gleamed almost red beneath the sodium light of the streetlamps. It was the brightest light she'd ever seen him in, she suddenly realized, and he looked...

 

...almost normal. The realization was almost enough to make her laugh. He was perhaps a bit overdressed, in his long wool coat and tall boots, but there were certainly stranger things to be seen of an evening in the city. She herself was probably more out of place than he, in her flowing white gown, with no concession made at all to the bitterly cold night. Self-consciously, she shrugged her shoulder, hoping her hair would fall to cover the bloodstains, but she caught herself as she did so. Even if someone were to notice, would they really suspect anything more suspicious than a spilled glass of wine or an errant spurt of ketchup? Even Radu... had he walked with his shoulders thrown back and his face exposed, he could never have passed for human... but who would think to look for the inhuman? Easier to write it off as a birth defect, or the ravages of some disease.

 

She set her jaw, humiliated at the ease with which he dismissed such an overwhelming concern, and matched his pace in grim silence for half a dozen strides. “I think I get it,” she said finally.

 

“I have sought to impress upon you the boundaries that define our lives,” he replied, “but it is time you learned to appreciate that which lies within them.”

 

She exhaled roughly, fixing her gaze on the pavement before them. “But... everything that's happened lately. The events at... at the Institute.” She stumbled over the sentence, unwilling to remember any more than she had to. “People have to be asking questions.”

 

“For which there will never be answers.”

 

“But the police... you're telling me _no _one ever notices?” He himself had run down a pair of hapless bar-goers that had stumbled across them on the hunt, that first terrible night after she'd returned to him. He had been _furious_ with her; furious enough to—but it didn't matter. She had long since gathered that consistency was not one of his more admirable qualities. It was something she was growing less and less able to begrudge him; she was learning how much easier it was to simply forget.

 

“It has happened in the past,” he said. “We leave for a time.”

 

“Leave?”

 

He raised his head, inhaling deeply, as if he wished to savor the evening air. “Indeed. I thought perhaps to take you north, regardless... the darkness stretches over the roof of the world for months, as winter draws close. But, as enchanting as you are, I am uncertain that I could keep you _occupied_ throughout such a long night.”

 

The fond indulgence in his voice was enough to make her lip curl; she was heartily grateful he was unable to see her face. “I understand,” she said tonelessly. She could see the benefits in such an idea, now that it had been pointed out to her—the land of the midnight sun also became the land of the noontime dark, as the earth tilted on its axis, and she'd already experienced some of its benefits. She had searched for suitable prey for hours this evening, unable to find an appropriate victim, and yet it was scarcely past midnight. And traveling... she had a fairly good idea of how she would accomplish it, when the time came, but practice would not come amiss. She ought to perk up, she knew, express some enthusiasm at the idea, but she could not bring herself to simper and promise to be good. Not tonight, when the fallout of her eerie encounter with the waitress still haunted her mind.

 

But they were drawing closer to the cross street, the distance between them and the few pedestrians abroad growing ever narrower. Still far away enough to pass unnoticed, but anxiety was mounting within her. The last Vladislas was a firm believer in practical demonstrations, and while she assumed he had fed on his own while they had been separated, it would be just his style to casually tear someone's throat out, an object lesson in just how untouchable they really were. She had to distract him, somehow.

 

So, licking her lips nervously, she asked the question that had been plaguing her since he had joined her. “Were you with me, tonight? The whole time?”

 

Radu turned his head to look down at her, the harsh planes of his face stark in the shadows of the streetlamps. “I was never beyond your reach.” His steps slowed, forcing her to match. “You were frightened,” he prompted softly.

 

She nodded, looking away. She had come to accept that he had some awareness of her thoughts, though to what extent she had never dared ask, but she never enjoyed receiving fresh evidence of it. “I wasn't just being... hesitant,” she said by way of defense. “Did you see the woman? That man was chasing her, and I had to separate them.” She was silent for a moment, groping for the best way to phrase the incident. “She saw me, but she didn't _see _me. She was really frightened, but...” She shook her head, frustrated at her own inability to say it plainly. “I think I _hypnotized _her, Radu. She was almost panicking, and I told her to stop, and she just... _did._”

 

He stopped abruptly. “Are you certain she was not merely afraid?”

 

She nodded again. “I think so. I looked her in the eye and yelled at her, and she did. She just stood there like... like a zombie. A little later, I told her to take something from me, and she did, but...” She hunched her shoulders, unnerved anew by the recollection. “What _happened?_”

 

He was silent for a moment, his lips pursed in thought; then, with no further comment, nudged her gently away from the cross street. She turned. gratefully, allowing him to lead her down the narrow lane with no protest. This was a small road, choked with shuttered businesses; the streetlights were few and far between, and those that actually worked were even more scarce. The strolled past a few of the storefronts, finally stopping near the mouth of a fetid alley.

 

 

Radu pulled his arm away from her, setting his palms lightly on her shoulders and turning her to face him. Michelle froze, uncertain; she clenched her hands involuntarily when she felt the dry, scabrous brush of his fingertips beneath her chin, raising her head to look at him.His expression was intent, lips slightly parted to reveal his heavy, tusk-like fangs, but his gaze was somewhat unfocused, almost hazy; he seemed to look past her, or _through _her. She watched him carefully, curiosity briefly overriding her unease, but he remained utterly still. She finally began to open her mouth and ask what he was doing--

 

\--but couldn't. The shock raced through her veins like ice water. It was not that she was bound, or restrained in any way; she simply _could not move._ She tried to blink, but even that small action was denied her; she could do nothing but stand there transfixed, gazing at his distant, detached countenance. The sheer _alienness _of it—this wasn't the dreamy, heavy lassitude of sedation, nor the rough constriction of bondage; it was an utter and complete inability to move the smallest muscle, no matter how frantically she tried to.

 

It was exactly what she had done to the waitress.

 

Pity and shame uncoiled within her; no matter how inadvertently, she had inflicted this terrifying lack of will on another. Had the woman been entirely cognizant of what was going on, as Michelle now was? Had her thoughts raced as rapidly as Michelle's now did, desperately seeking to make some kind of sense of the situation, grasping for some measure of control over her own body? Had her mind writhed in horror as her body had responded to orders that were not her own?

If Radu meant to—no. She couldn't finish that thought. She focused her sight on him, willing him to let her go, as futile as it seemed. If he could read her thoughts, then let him see her anger and disgust at being held this way; let him see the chilling fear. Let it overwhelm him.

 

_Overwhelmed..._ She'd done it the same way, she realized. She'd caught the woman's gaze in her own, merely trying to get her attention, before issuing her order; Radu had made her meet his eyes only a moment ago. It must be part of the trick. She fixed her eyes on his, pouring every ounce of resistance she could muster into her stare; focused on nothing but his plain brown eyes, shadowed in their hollows, the most human thing about him. _No, _she thought. _No._

 

His lips curved in the faintest of smiles, and he raised his palm to cup her chin, the thick, curved claw at the end of his thumb tickling along her cheekbone. “You've never needed such tricks to ensnare me, pretty one,” he said, his voice carrying a tinge of wistfulness. He drew his fingers down her face slowly, caresses that were barely there; as he did, she felt that strange, dominating sense of stillness receding. It was a release, she knew beyond doubting; he was letting her go. But she knew just as certainly, somehow, that whatever he had just done, he was not very good at.

 

She stepped away as soon as she could, her hand flying instinctively to the place where he had touched her. She sucked in a great heaving gasp of air, simply for the pleasure of doing so. She felt fine—intact--normal--but the knowledge of what had just taken place lay on her heart like a stone. The idea that he could pin her in place like a butterfly with a mere look—that he might be able to make her _do _things...

 

...he never had. It was the one fact she could use to console herself. He never had. But that did not mean he never would.

 

She hugged herself tightly, a hapless attempt to ward off a sudden chill that was purely internal. She hadn't thought this through; she shouldn't have asked. She had been happier not knowing.

 

The light touch on her elbow was unexpected enough that it nearly startled a small cry from her. Radu let his fingers drop, but kept his hand extended to her. She looked up at him cautiously, but he did not seem to have taken offense at her reaction. “Come home,” he said.

 

It wasn't a terrible idea. As little as she relished the idea of being alone with him, what privacy she could manage would not come amiss while she thought about the implications of this new... skill. Power. Whatever it was.

 

She forced herself to lower her hand, her fingers brushing against his in the lightest contact she could manage. They stood for a moment; they might have been any pair out for a night on the town, incongruous only against the unpleasantness of their surroundings. But one of the dying streetlights finally gave its final, blinking sputter; a shadow stretched briefly across the gibbous moon, and they were gone.

* * *

 

 

 The castle had never been a happy place.

 

Michelle had realized, very early in her education, that the popular perception of what constituted a castle was merely that: a perception. With a few rare exceptions, most occurring in fairly recent times, the mental image that occurred to most Americans when the word was mentioned--pennants blowing atop the spires of elegant towers, draw bridges lowered across flowing moats to allow shining knights on prancing horses to pass--was a falsehood engendered almost entirely by fancifully illustrated collections of fairy tales, and perpetrated by their more modern successors.

 

A real castle was, first and foremost, a defensive place; a keep, a fort, a _stronghold._ Any beauty inherent in their construction was often an afterthought; embellishments added when times were good, and the thick walls were a convenience and source of pride, rather than the difference between life and death for those who dwelled within. Though built on grand scales, designed to be able to shelter much of the local populace when times were bad, the sole concerns were functionality and efficiency; anything else was frivolity, accounted for only by the wealth and whims of those who possessed them.

 

Castle Vladislas typified many of the best aspects of defensive architecture, when looked at from that perspective, and wasted nothing on adornment. Michelle could easily imagine the great hall she now made her way through crowded with tables seating dozens, perhaps hundreds of people, bolting an evening meal beneath guttering torchlight; but the idea of a ball, a wedding, a knighting, a celebration... utterly inconceivable.

 

It was not that sort of place.

 

But perhaps it was unfair of her to project her fancies onto the ancient stones that now sheltered her. Since it had become the ancestral seat of the family that currently possessed it, nearly a millenia ago, it had never fallen; no invader had ever breached its walls, no enemy had ever starved its inhabitants into submission, no matter how viciously wars of antiquity and more modern vintage had raged across the region. Squat, brutal, inelegant... but efficient. Very efficient.

 

Though perhaps 'ancestral seat' was a bit of a misnomer as well, for in all that time, these walls had only known two masters; the second stood before her now, and beckoned her to follow him with a peremptory gesture. She trailed after him, hoping his relatively agreeable mood still held.

 

Her footsteps would have rung from the flagstones, had she not learned the trick of silencing them as soon as she was able, but would have been muffled regardless as she passed through the doors into the close, narrow confines of the castle's interior. She supposed that the corridors had, as always, been designed with defense in mind: one or two armored men could have held the passages against all comers for as long as their strength held out. She had found it overwhelming, at first, the tall, narrow stone halls setting off twinges of claustrophobia she had not known she possessed until then, but that had quickly passed. They were almost reassuring, now. No one could get past you. No one could sneak up on you. You knew where you stood.

 

Sounds were tricky, though; the thick walls seemed to alternately silence and amplify, and Michelle could not refrain from gritting her teeth when she caught the faint, rapid scrabble of claws over stone. Rats, she told herself, despite the evidence of her senses. It was only rats. She shook her head, as if that could clear the truth from her thoughts.

 

She relaxed somewhat when she realized that they were treading the familiar path to the castle's library. Radu ducked beneath a rusted iron scone and, stepping forward, wrapped his fingers around one of the heavy iron rings that fronted the pair of massive oak doors. Though she guessed that each door had to weigh a few hundred pounds, he pulled it open without so much as a protesting squeal of hinges; he waited beside it, gesturing for her to precede him with a nod. She entered without a moment's hesitation; it was where she had spent much of her time, these past few nights, and was one of the most peaceful spaces she had ever shared with him. Truth be told, it almost made it all worth it.

 

It helped, anyway.

 

Though the state it was in was enough to make her scholar's heart quail--coated in dust and festooned with spiderwebs, its contents bearing heavy evidence of exposure to humidity and vermin--it was nevertheless a treasure she could not have dreamed up in her wildest imaginings. The first time she had been allowed to peruse its titles, she had wished ardently that she'd bothered to learn more about the Library of Alexandria, as she suddenly suspected that its secrets were not as completely lost as historians had thus far surmised.

 

Further examination had mostly disabused her of that notion, but the collection was still breathtaking. She had done her best to begin a catalogue, but it seemed that every time she began to make progress, she would uncover some new cache that needed to be added. She had not even begun on most of the higher shelves; some of the bookcases rose nearly ten feet high, and she did not trust the elderly, bowed wood to support her. Some small part of her was fairly confident that such an issue would prove to be of no great concern, were she willing to explore the boundaries of her new station; but she was not.

 

It was still a wonderful place to pass the time; there were so many opportunities to lose herself in bygone philosophies, so many ways to ignore the grim reality of her own situation. She could have read for decades before she exhausted the texts in languages she could read, never mind the collection itself.

 

She did not bother to hope that she would be allowed to do so tonight. Radu did not seem to mind her making free with the collection—or did not deign to notice that she did—but he only joined her when he had a specific aim in mind. So she merely crossed the narrow space to stand beside one of the long work table and folded her hands, waiting.

 

“What happened?” She looked up, confused; but realized, as he turned to examine the nearest bookcase, that he was merely repeating the last question she had asked him. “Your thoughts are still so very direct, my pretty one; I am alternately charmed and vexed.” He slid a heavy tome part way from the shelf, examined it, and pushed it back. “A month ago, you did not believe in such as we, even as you watched the evidence mount before your eyes.” He abandoned that case, turning to sift through a pile stacked upon a trunk. “A fortnight past, you swore that you would rather die than live as we do.” He shoved them aside, reaching for a collection of scrolls that had fallen behind them. “And now... now you wish the explanation for one of the greatest mysteries of our kind handed to you as tribute.” He shook his head slowly. “Perhaps I ought instead be honored by your faith in me, but... ah.” He straightened abruptly, and crooked a finger in a come-hither gesture.

 

Michelle followed the direction of his arm, thinking that he meant for her to fetch something, but it proved to be all she could do to keep her expression neutral when she saw what he had pointed at. The familiar, hated scrabbling grew louder; a moment later, a diminutive figure hopped onto the edge of the table in a blur of red. It made its way towards her ponderously, its typically awkward gait made even more so by the roll of paper clutched to its chest; horrified as she was by its presence, she was, as always, unable to look away.

 

The subspecies were Radu's minions, brought forth whole from his own flesh in an unholy process she could only begin to guess at. She knew not how he communicated with them, but they always seemed to be lurking, ready to get underfoot whenever the opportunity presented itself; as demonic as their appearances were, the biggest of them was scarcely knee-high.

 

The one that approached her now was one of the original trio, one of the hornless pair; she had yet to learn to distinguish them, if it even mattered. There was a fourth now, of course, one that she had stolen for her very own and fed upon the Bloodstone itself in a mad act of desperation. She had thought to hold it hostage against Radu's good behavior; he seemed to find the idea highly amusing... but the wound that she had inflicted upon his hand had never healed. She still hoped that meant something, but it was irrelevant, for the time being. The last time she had encountered it, it had been beset by the trio; it had thanked her for its rescue by biting her and running away. She hadn't seen it in days.

 

The creature shuffled to the edge of the table and proffered its burden with a tiny grunt of effort. Moving cautiously so as not to startle it, she reached out for it, carefully positioning her hand so that she would not risk touching the creature's skin. It let go of the roll readily enough, nearly causing her to drop it as she compensated for its surprising weight; the creature leapt to the floor with a soft growl and scuttled away.

 

She hefted it in her hands, realizing that it was an actual scroll; but something seemed wrong about it besides its weight. Its center rod was some dark wood, capped with delicately carved finials, but the scroll itself... she surreptitiously rubbed her fingers against a corner of it as she began to unroll it. Paper; the scroll was fine linen paper, rather than the parchment one would normally expect to see. By the time paper this smooth was being manufactured, book-binding was well-established; she was fairly certain that the printing press had existed for a good length of time, for that matter. A roll of this length would have been a great deal more difficult to come by than an actual book. Curious, she unrolled it a little farther.

 

Hand-lettered, of course, in a passable semi-uncial script. _De occulta philosphia libris tres. _“Agrippa?” She murmured the byline; realizing she had spoken aloud, she turned to Radu. “Cornelius Agrippa?”

 

He raised an eyebrow, and gave her a sardonic nod. “The very same.”

 

She looked back to the scroll, frowning. It was a fluke, really; he and his writings were far out of her purview. But back in her undergrad days, a friend of her roommate's had possessed a copy of The Ladies' Oracle, an odd little fortune-telling book. One closed one's eyes and selected a cipher by pointing a finger at a collection of them; an index in the back allowed you to look up the answer to your question that particular cipher indicated. It had been a silly way to pass an evening, but fun, and so much less intimidating than Tarot cards or Ouija boards. She'd only looked into it enough to determine that it wasn't a complete hoax, like the Necronomicon; seeing that name again, in such drastically different circumstances, gave her a horrible prickle of deja vu. “This will explain things?”

 

“No,” he replied. “But it will provide you with the framework you will require to understand the things I am going to share with you.”

 

_Survey course, _she thought absurdly. _Gotcha. _She caught the inner flesh of her underlip beneath her fangs, using the pain to stifle the sudden burst of mad giggles that suddenly threatened to bubble to the surface. Unable to risk another look at him, she swept her skirts to the side and seated herself on the bench. She unrolled more of the scroll, laying it on the table before her, and let the roll rest in her lap.

 

It really was fascinating, she thought as she smoothed it out before her, piqued that she was unable to date it. She read the inscription again, just to familiarize herself with the language—her Latin had never been as good as it should have been—but, as her eyes drifted downward, her mouth drew down in dismay. She didn't know what the rest of it was, but based on the umlauts and the seemingly random capitalizations, she was guessing it to be an archaic form of German.

 

Just that easily, her rising spirits plummeted. This was no longer a simple research exercise, a pleasant enough task to lose herself in; this was yet another failure, the penalty for which she couldn't begin to guess at. “Radu,” she whispered. “Radu, I... I'm sorry. I can't read this.” She kept her eyes down, awaiting his response.

 

She expected the sharp noise of disgust; the rest of it she was unprepared for. _“English,” _he growled. She looked up; he was already approaching. Yet instead of the blow she half-expected, he merely sat on the edge of the bench and slid himself over to sit beside her. “Hmm,” he muttered, leaning forward to peer at the section she had unrolled; a claw traced the lettering faintly until it rested beneath the first word of the unfamiliar language. His left arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close until they sat thigh to thigh; he rested his hand on her knee. She stiffened, sitting ramrod straight, but he seemed to pay her no heed. “Attend,” he rumbled.

And so Michelle did her best to ignore it, as Radu began a hoarse, stilted lecture on gender and declension in German.


	2. Chapter 2

_...but no preposition requires the genitive case._

 

Michelle gasped involuntarily as every muscle in her body clenched, the great, titanic spasm that passed for awakening each sunset. She pursed her lips in a wince as one of her fangs sheared the delicate flesh of her inner lip; her hand flew to her mouth, as if to ward off the sudden bright stab of pain. She wondered, not for the first time, if she'd ever get used to it; if she'd ever get to the point where she was no longer inadvertently hurting herself. Enough shredded palms had taught her not to rest with her hands in fists, but could see no way to keep from biting herself.

 

Carefully, she rolled over onto her side, laying her cheek against the cool, gritty stone of the slab she rested upon, and closed her eyes. In some ways, she was happy with the absence of true sleep; she did not dream, and the lack of nightmares was one of the few things she had to be truly grateful for. But the daily... catatonia was the only word she could apply to it, was disorienting enough in its own right. One moment, she was aware and functional; she was the next moment, as well, but would find the hours of daylight had slithered through her grasp like a fistful of sand. She was completely awake from the instant her eyes opened, but she found that she often needed a few minutes simply to process the fact of her consciousness.

 

But the days when she had happily lazed abed, snuggling into a warm nest of blankets and wondering with sleepy puzzlement whether or not she could get away with hitting the snooze button one more time, were long gone. Opening her eyes, she raised herself on one elbow; she was, as she had suspected, alone, but she still had no great desire to linger. Sitting up, she swung her legs over the edge of the slab and dropped the last few inches to the floor. Straightening, she resisted the urge to stretch—she found no pleasure or ease in it anymore, but the habit died hard—and began to make her way out of the catacombs.

 

The ghoulishness of her surroundings was losing its power to distress her. Looked at pragmatically, it only made sense. The family crypts were sunk deep into the earth, and were perforce the most lightless place in the castle; they were free of even the slight risk of exposure the arrow slits in the upper bedchambers caused. Funerary arrangements had only become matters of historical interest fairly recently, as far as the Vladislas were concerned; prior to the advent of archeology, this would have been a private, perhaps even a sacred place, where even the most brazen of interlopers would have been loath to intrude.

 

She reminded herself of all these things as she crossed the dank, dusty rooms, doing her best to avoid disturbing so much as a cobweb. The crypts were even handsome, in their own way; the ornately carved stonework that fronted many of them would have made for lovely etchings, had anyone been so inclined, and the architectural skill that had kept the high, vaulted ceilings from collapsing in upon themselves was nothing short of masterful. Handsome, so long as one made certain not to notice the wizened corpses that gaped in wicked humor upon their biers; impressive, so long as one looked past the scattered bones, and refused to think about what had strewn them, or why.

 

She was getting better at it.

 

Mounting the broad stone stairs was a relief, as always, but emerging into the hall put her back on her guard. She paused, one hand resting on the lintel, and listened attentively. Nothing, save the faint, whispering rustle of the wind through the trees, far beyond the walls; not so much as the scuttle of the subspecies busying themselves with whatever tasks kept them occupied when they were out of sight. Not that that necessarily signified; senses were even more easily deceived than she had originally thought, as she had learned last night. But she welcomed the silence nonetheless, and wished ardently that it would hold.

 

Almost absently, she found her feet carrying her once more toward the library. If Radu had plans for the evening, she would be informed of them in due time; it wasn't as if she had anything else to occupy herself with. She could leave, she supposed; there was nothing holding her here, save the knowledge that he would be after her with implacable ferocity as soon as he became aware of her flight. She could elude him, for a time; perhaps even for good, now that there was no one... nothing left to hamper her.

 

Yet she had nowhere to go. Her desire to flee had cooled into weary somnolence. She was what she was, and nothing would change that short of death; death that she had once craved with fiery passion, but now no longer had the nerve to face, no matter how callously she inflicted it on others. She still hated herself, but she hated the alternative even more; she felt empty inside, scoured, broken, and helpless. Dead.

 

Thus, the library.

 

She had left the doors ajar, in the vague hope that the air flow would help combat the humidity that was slowly destroying the books; everything within remained as they had left it. Agrippa's scroll rested on the table, only a foot and a half of it unrolled; complex sorcerous texts did not make the best language primers, and progress had been achingly slow.

 

As she settled herself on the bench and peered at it once more, searching for her place, she doubted tonight would be any better. A grasp of basic grammar and sentence structure was all very well and good, but were nothing without the vocabulary that only exposure and memorization could provide. It was doubly frustrating, for while she had always known that English was a Germanic language, she had never realized just how close the relationship was until now. Scanning, the text looked naggingly familiar; her eye would catch a word or a suffix that she almost understood, but the work itself was almost completely impenetrable.

 

Leaning forward to prop her chin on her fist, she did her best to ignore her misgivings and forge ahead. At least she understood what she was looking at, this time; her early forays into Greek, with its picturesque, alien alphabet, had been more akin to attempting to make sense of a child's scribbles. The capitalized nouns certainly helped cue her in to what sort of sentence she was looking at. But she would have given anything for a simple pocket dictionary.

 

She assumed he would have found one for her to use, had he possessed one; unless, in his usual perversity, he somehow felt that learning a language from scratch helped build character. It certainly hadn't been the first time he had instructed someone in a foreign tongue; that had been evident from the simplicity with which he explained the basics. Did he know of them? Spelling hadn't always been standardized, it was true, but she had to imagine that some sort of word concordances had followed fairly shortly after written language itself. Yet now that she thought of it, she wasn't certain; Merriam-Webster had only existed since the 1800s, and while she was fairly certain the Oxford went back quite a bit further than that, she--

 

The sharp, hollow bang sliced through her thoughts like a razor. She was on her feet, her vision hazing into the narrow hunter's gaze, before the sound had finished echoing. The source of the noise was obscure even to her attenuated sight for a moment; it took a furtive movement for her to realize that one of the subspecies crouched on a shelf high above her head. This was the fourth, newly born against its master's will; its dark hide, the color of dried blood, set it apart from the others as surely as its curved, ram-like horns. Below it, its pages splayed on the floor like a pinned moth, lay a book.

 

Michelle bent cautiously, her eyes never leaving the creature, and felt for the book; lifting it, she backed away, leery of any other missiles it might choose to hurl at her. She closed the book by feel, smoothing its pages with her fingers, and only when she was safely out of range did she glance down at its title. Disbelieving, she opened the cover and paged through it, an uncanny feeling growing within her. It was a German dictionary.

 

In French.

 

She looked up, her awe beginning to override her unease. “Are you _smart,_ little guy?” she whispered. The creature gave no indication that it had heard, let alone understood, but she was no less amazed. She had been wanting a dictionary; it had given her one. This was no mere coincidence, but the implications were staggering.

 

Radu never seemed to pay the slightest attention to the trio, but it appeared that they fetched, carried, and attacked in accordance with his desires. It made a simple sort of sense, if one threw rationality out the window; as extensions—outgrowths of himself, they would share his will. This one was as well, but she had stolen it from him, forced it into being. It had never shown any inclination towards obedience to either of them. It had fought the other subspecies; had attacked her quite savagely, the night after its creation. And yet here it was, after a week or more's unaccounted for absence, choosing to act as her research assistant.

 

_Was _it choosing? Or was it truly _hers_?

 

“C'mere, Rover.” Her voice was unsteady. “Come down from there.” Its seemingly perpetual scowl deepened, but it made no move to obey. Clasping the book to her chest, Michelle allowed her eyelids to droop and tried to ignore the feeling of absurdity as she _wished_ for the creature to come to her. She focused her thoughts, concentrating as hard as she could on her desire for it to approach her. She visualized its journey, monkeying down the shelves with great swings of its arms, landing on the floor and hopping up on the table beside her. She _willed _it to do so.

 

It remained in its place, its tiny eyes glittering in the dark.

 

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. She hadn't really expected it to work; that would have been far too simple. “I don't know what's going on here, little guy,” she told it. “What's your story?”

 

“Do you expect it to answer?”

 

She froze, proud of herself for refraining from flinching. The creature showed no such restraint; it vanished in a hasty scuttle. “I don't know.”

 

Radu made no reply. A moment later, she felt his fingertips come to rest lightly on her shoulders; she closed her eyes. “There are more pressing matters to attend to.” His nails trailed softly against the flesh of her throat as he gathered the dark strands of her hair, pulling it aside to expose her neck. “Do you require sustenance?” he murmured into her ear.

 

“No,” she answered automatically, and then realized that, for once, it was true. She tried to pace herself, to _test _herself, putting off feeding for as long as she possibly could; it was a hard fought battle, one that she knew she would never win, but she was pleased by this small evidence of success... but not pleased enough to bear his touch with equanimity. He rumbled deep in his throat at her response, and his fingers strayed back to her neck, gently stroking the place where her pulse would have beat, had she still possessed one.

 

She squeezed her eyes shut even more tightly. She wasn't afraid; merely resigned. She no longer had the luxury of attempting to justify her responses with logic and reason; she could only operate on instinct and the sure, unshakable knowledge it now provided her with. Despite everything she'd been through, everything he'd done to her, this was where the line lay: if he bit her, she would snap. Violence, insanity, catatonia... it didn't matter; whatever it was, it would be apocalyptic.

 

She almost welcomed the prospect.

 

Perhaps he sensed that; perhaps he merely meant to antagonize her; perhaps he truly was single-minded enough to think that his attention was welcome. His hands slid down to cup her shoulders, his claws brushing the tops of her breasts; he raised his head to nuzzle at her temple. Then he released her, and stepped away. “So diligent.”

 

The remark puzzled her, until she realized he was referring to the book she still held clasped to her chest like a shield. She shrugged, unable to formulate a useful response, but he seemed inclined to wait. “I need to learn,” she said finally.

 

“Just so.” He moved past her, the hem of his jacket brushing against her knee, and she relaxed fractionally as the distance between them increased. He took the chair at the end of the table, and a detached part of her mind could not help but analyze how stiffly he lowered himself into it. Curious, how someone that could act as swiftly and silently as he could when the situation called for it, moved so awkwardly the rest of the time, like a cripple, or an invalid. “I trust that you are edified.”

 

“I just started,” she began lamely; he knew very well how short a time she had been up. “It's still very difficult to follow, but...”

 

He wasn't looking at her; she followed his gaze to the niche the subspecies had recently occupied. It was difficult to read expression on the harsh planes of his face, but she sensed something odd about him, something that went deeper than distraction or inattention. He'd never seemed to regard its creation as anything other than an amusing feint, had never seemed to notice the seemingly permanent loss its substance had cost him, but she did not relish the idea of being taken to task for it now. Was he angry? Jealous?

 

“There are ways upon ways,” he said, and she remained silent, unable to fathom where this was leading, but preparing herself for the worst.

 

His fingers moved briefly, and she saw that he was holding a knife; the very same that she'd carried with her last night. Her jaw tensed as she remembered the last knife he'd taken from her; the sorcerous blade she'd ended up plunging into his face. She'd chosen this one, rummaged from a trunk in one of the bedchambers, precisely for its plainness; she could not imagine it being of any great account. Yet she supposed that, when dealing with individuals as long-lived as they, at some point, most possessions became priceless antiquities. Some day, even Rebecca's battered leather jacket might--

 

\--no. _No. _That didn't need to be thought about; that didn't matter right now.

 

What mattered was that Radu was fidgeting.

 

Was he nervous? No... but tense? She would have bet a great deal that he was. The set of his mouth, the way he held his shoulders, the simple fact that his eyes, for once, were not fixed upon her... It was tempting to regard him in the special way that seemed to be the unique province of vampires, but she restrained herself; she found him overwhelming at the best of times, and did not feel up to learning what heightened emotions would add to the experience. It was intriguing, nonetheless. She wondered suddenly if it had been arrogance, rather than experience, speaking last night; she wondered if it was time to leave.

 

He finally sought her gaze, and she was surprised anew at the frank appraisal she saw on his face. “With every night that passes, you become more of what you are meant to be,” he said, “yet you are still unhappy here.” He was courteous enough not to expect that to be dignified with a response. “I had thought the severance of your mortal ties would cure you of such—sit _down._”

 

Michelle knew that she was trembling, but it wasn't until the sharp crack of his voice cut through her hearing that she realized how badly. It took an act of will to unclench her hands from the book; the force of her grip had left deep impressions of her fingers in its leather binding. Moving deliberately, concentrating on every movement, she made herself set it down on the table; with likewise care, she lowered herself onto the bench before it. She couldn't talk about this; she couldn't think about this. She couldn't and she _wouldn't._

 

Radu was beside her in a soft whisper of fabric. She kept her eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden table, unable to speak; barely able to _think._ The brush of his fingers against the backs of her knuckles was a mere annoyance; he took her hand so gently that she scarcely noticed as he clasped it between her own. “Such grief does not become you,” he said quietly, “nor does it avail you.”

 

As if he had any _right. _“You murdered your brother,” she grated, almost incapable of forcing the words past her lips. “You should know—you should _know_\--” She choked on whatever she had meant to say, and turned away, eyes burning with the tears she wished she could shed. She tried to yank her hand away, suddenly unable to bear his touch, but he grasped her firmly.

 

“You pine,” he said. “You wither.” He stroked the back of her wrist with his thumb. “Do you crave redress?”

 

Just that easily, her rage fled her, to be replaced with a stunned, numb horror. _Redress. _Of course. Sorrow, regret, mourning, _morals—_how could a creature that viewed the slaughter of its own flesh and blood as a convenient means to an end be expected to understand such things? She was not merely beyond the looking glass; she was in hell. No matter how hard he tried to understand her, she no longer believed he could. Not if something so simple and so life-altering eluded him so utterly. “Nicolescu is dead. She's... it's over. It's done.”

 

“Not when you carry it so close to your heart,” he continued inexorably. “Michelle.” She looked up, the sound of her own name enough to startle her. One of his hands slipped free of hers, and he pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Did you believe us unique?” His expression softened as he took in her distress. “As I am to you, so one was to him. I know where that one bides.”

 

_Sins of the fathers, _she thought with a chill. The truly awful thing was that, in his own way, he was trying to be kind. Redress. Vengeance. Blood to pay for blood. “I don't want to kill anyone.”

 

“There are ways,” he repeated, “upon ways.” She stayed silent, unable to frame a response, scarcely able to keep from trembling. How to explain to him how sick she was of bloodshed? That the time spent in the library was almost tolerable, that she wished for nothing more ardently than to be left alone? She dropped her gaze back to the table, her jaw clenched. He might hear her words, but he'd find no sense in them. There was nothing she could say.

 

“Regardless,” he continued, “moved as I am on your own behalf, such behavior cannot be tolerated.” He tucked the strand of hair behind her ear, his claws ticklish against her face. “There must be an accounting, if not a reckoning.” His hand lingered, trailing slowly down her shoulder. “I seek to teach you circumspection, as much as anything else.”

 

_Yes, burning the place down was the height of discretion. _“I suppose I don't understand.”

 

“It is not enough that you are able to hunt on your own, to care for yourself.” She was unable to repress the shiver as his nails found bare flesh. “You must be able to move throughout the world without attracting the attention of the mortals... and without drawing the ire of those less inclined to tolerate your activities, as Nicolescu failed to do.” It was no real surprise that vampires were, so to speak, a dog-eat-dog society, but she had thus far failed to consider the larger implications of that. Radu talked of bearding this other vampire in its lair, so he must not fear it, and his arrogance had thus far borne itself out... but he had spoken of her being on her own.

 

_I might even set you free._ She'd never believed it, not for a moment, but would he really waste his time instilling her with false hope? He was generally—exclusively, as far as she had experienced—so much more direct in his cruelty. Of course, 'some day' took on a very different meaning in the mouth of a creature that could potentially live for millenia, but... but...

 

“I don't want to fight anyone, Radu,” she said wearily. “I would have left Nicolescu alone, if he'd done the same.” Even as she said it, aware of its essential truthfulness, she was still shocked by the bright, bitter flare of rage that erupted at the mere thought. Perhaps if she had never become aware of his existence, things might have gone well; but knowing what he had been capable of, knowing what he had done, she was unable to summon the slightest fragment of remorse for what she'd done to him; her only regret was in not acting quickly or thoroughly enough.

 

“Yet you rose to the occasion tolerably well, once called to do so,” he countered. “Perhaps you shall again.” He was silent for a moment, his thumb stroking her palm. “I care little for the company of others, but perhaps you shall find it... illuminating. But heed me well.” Suddenly, his fingers were beneath her chin, yanking her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I expect you to comport yourself in a manner that befits your status. If you disappoint me in this, your sorrows will grow too numerous to be counted.”

 

Michelle's thoughts whirled as she struggled not to flinch. _My status? What?_ But he held her eyes firmly, waiting for a response; there was nothing she could say but, “Of course I will.”

 

The corner of his mouth lifted, carving deep lines into his skin. “I think you might.” She never saw him move: his fingers were gone, and he was rising from the bench, straightening the hem of his vest as he turned away from her. “Come along.”

 

She blinked stupidly for a moment. “Now? We're going _now?_”

 

He looked back over his shoulder. “Did you wish to hunt, after all?”

 

Her first desperate instinct was to say _yes_, anything to put this abrupt change off for as long as she could; but even in her confused panic, she could not rationalize murdering someone simply because she had stage fright. “No,” she made herself say, lifting her skirts to help herself stand on numb legs. He made no further comment, merely walked away, unshakably confident that she would follow behind.

 

She was not so sure; a mad flight into the darkness might be a better option than whatever was in store for her now. Her thoughts raced as she tried to glean as much information from his statements as she could. He didn't care for the company of others; that meant there were probably more than the one who had made Nicolescu, wherever they were going. A coven? A nest? A flock? Too many, whatever their number would prove to be.

 

He suspected she would find their company illuminating. She couldn't begin to imagine what he might mean by that. Instructive, in that she would get to see the ways other vampires conducted their business? She seriously doubted Radu would find much value in the ways others did things. _Illuminating. _Was it a veiled threat? Would they expose her to the sun if she displeased them? She didn't believe he would take her into such danger—at least, not without a plan for getting her out of it—but an object lesson in her own durability... she shuddered.

 

He expected her to behave as befitted her status. _What _status? As his fledgling, was she supposed to be particularly well-trained, no matter how short the duration of her bondage? His father had been king of the vampires; she supposed that he was now, though he had not done any ruling that she had noticed... unless that was what he was up to on the nights she found herself alone upon awakening. Was this to be an occasion of state? Would there be ceremonies, rituals to be observed?

 

Sacrifices?

 

Was she his queen? _Their _queen?

 

She was so wrapped up in her increasingly frantic imaginings that she took little notice of where he was leading her. She noted vaguely that they did not turn into the great hall as they usually did, but continued instead down the outer corridor; its featureless length did little to distract her. It was only when she came up short against the icy barrier that her thoughts returned to the present; the deep, gnawing tingling bit into her flesh like frost. She skipped backwards with a gasp, rubbing her forearms to make sure they were whole; she could scarcely believe there weren't holes eaten into her flesh, so intense had the sensation been. Surprised and alarmed, she looked up, unable to fathom what had caused such a dreadful sensation.

 

Radu was a step or two beyond the doorway before her, head turned as if he had glanced back at the sound of her gasp. Over his shoulder, the large, brass cross was visible at the other end of the long room.

 

The chapel.

 

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “Cross this threshold and be welcome and sheltered here, as you are throughout my domain.” She froze, almost unable to believe what she was seeing; taking her hesitancy for fear, he extended a hand to her, the spidery fingers passing the door with no sign of discomfort. She took his hand reflexively, his skin cool and dry to the touch. He pulled her forward gently, for once seeming to appreciate her hesitancy.

 

She tensed for a further assault on her senses, but passed beneath the lintel with no further incident. She gazed about her, wide-eyed. She hadn't set foot in this place since that terrible night, the very last night of her life; hadn't thought to, had done her best to put it from her mind. Yet it seemed almost impossible that it should be so unchanged; that the site of such a momentous tragedy could bear no mark whatsoever of its happening. The pews were still tumbled about, festooned with perhaps a few more streamers of cobweb now that Otto was no longer alive to set things to rights. The altar cloth was still askew, the tall, wide windows that let in broad shafts of daylight still unshuttered, the door to the nave where they'd cowered away from--

 

\--it was almost enough to wrench a cry from her. She remembered her disbelief, the slight condescension she'd felt when Otto had extended that strangely formal invitation to Stefan; she remembered even more vividly the deep, soul-nourishing relief she'd come to feel, to know that there was at least one place that she'd be safe from harm “All along,” she whispered. “You could have come in all along.” More well-meant lies, more deadly ignorance. As addled as he later claimed to have been, Radu had still been ahead of them every step of the way.

 

He raised a sardonic eyebrow at her. “I built it,” he said shortly. Dropping her hand, he turned and made his way down the aisle.

 

“Are you religious?” The question was out before she had a chance stop it; she hoped the disbelief she felt did not color her tone too deeply. Michelle had been raised as a vague, Christmas and Easter Protestant, but she knew the older forms took the rite of communion a great deal more literally; she supposed it made a sick sort of sense—wasn't the Bloodstone itself said to be a holy relic?--but she was utterly unable to reconcile the cadaverous figure before her with the idea of churchgoing.

 

He paused for a moment, not quite looking back over his shoulder, but continued towards the altar. “These lands have adhered to the Orthodoxy since its dissemination,” he said, “despite the best of Rome's efforts.” He stopped before it, spreading his arms to run his fingers along its elegantly carved edges.

 

“In the earliest days, this was still a border, tried sorely by the... Ottoman.” He hesitated over the word, as if choosing a different one than he normally would have used. “Catholic armies ranged to the west of us... some internal dispute... but offered no aid, save to those who would renounce their _heresy._” He sank slowly to his knees, hands trailing along the altar's sides in what was nearly a caress. Michelle, trailing in his wake, halted abruptly; she had no idea if she was witnessing some sort of private observance, or something even less comprehensible. She was aware of the Orthodox tendency towards kissing idols, but she'd never encountered any references to petting.

 

“Some did, and were saved by the papists, molding their beliefs as if they were mud; they survive, even today, as the Byzantines.” He braced a hand on one knee and levered himself slowly to his feet. “We... did not.” He circled the altar, turning to lay his hands upon the the sculpted rafter support, one of the few decorative elements of the architecture. “And yet we endured. I caused this place to be raised at my wife's behest, as a sign of gratitude.”

 

His _wife?_ Before she had a chance to really process that, Radu turned back to her, one hand raised to display the thong wrapped sinuously around his fingers; a dull brass key dangled at his wrist. Hooking his other thumb beneath the cord, he raised it and settled it around his neck, pulling his hair from under it and tucking it beneath the lapels of his coat. He descended the low step from the altar, and was beside her in an eyeblink. He laid his fingers lightly on her wrist in a gesture she was becoming all too accustomed to; he barely had time to whisper, “Come,” before they were slithering through the darkness.

 

* * *

 

She had known their destination almost as soon as they departed, but Michelle still felt the awful creep of remembered terror as her feet found the damp grass that was suddenly beneath them. Though she still didn't know its name, she'd admired this place, on her first drive through the city: the gleaming white stone, the scrupulously manicured flowers, the gorgeous stonework that any master mason would be proud to call his own. It had been impossible to guess then just how well acquainted with it she would become; as one of the oldest structures within it, the Vladislas family crypt squatted in the very center of the sprawling Bucharest cemetery.

 

Beside her, Radu lifted his head. With her senses as attenuated as they always became in the noisy jumble that the world at large had transformed into for her, it was easy to hear the rasp of his lungs as he drew in a deep breath, carefully scenting the night air. She followed suit: cut grass, motor oil, wet pavement, salt, and an almost overwhelming floral reek that was still not enough to overpower the deep, sweet stench of corruption that she supposed was evidence of the bodies interred beneath their feet. She exhaled forcefully, to drive the scent from her nostrils.

 

Apparently satisfied with what he found, Radu turned his head to examine their surroundings more carefully. She could detect no one present—no one alive, at any rate—but she supposed he had reason enough to be cautious in this place. The crypt had been his mother's den for an unknowable length of time; if there were ever to be an unquiet spirit walking the earth in search of vengeance, it would be Circe.

 

She drove the idea from her mind as firmly as she had dispelled the smell of corpses. This was going to be hard enough as it was, no matter what reason he had brought her here. This was where they'd held her captive; where Circe had shown her that Radu had come by his sadism honestly; where she'd almost won free. She shut her eyes tightly, as if that could disperse the image of Rebecca's pleading, tear-stained face on the other side of the gate. If they had hit on the idea of body bags a day or two earlier, they might even now be relaxing together in Oneonta. They might--

 

The click of the lock seemed as loud as a gunshot to her ears; her eyes flew open, and she was pathetically grateful for the distraction. Radu swung the gate wide; it moved silently on its hinges, bereft of the tortured squeal its appearance seemed to require. Lowering her head, she balled her hands into fists and moved past him as quickly as she could make herself; no matter what the purpose of their errand, she could not believe that this was their final destination. She would simply have to endure, as she did everything else; it could not be worse than what awaited at the end of her journey.

 

She waited at the top of the steps as he locked the gate once more, replacing the key around his neck, and wordlessly paced him as he began to descend the stairs. Thirteen steps; long enough to fall and break your neck, but too tall to surmount before daybreak. The long hallway, the stone that formed it so roughly hewn it seemed more like a tunnel, with its floor strewn with sand; twenty-six steps that might as well have been a descent into the bowels of hell. She remembered the distances well; she'd counted obsessively, plotting and planning, in the time that it had seemed that a simple run for it might solve her problems.

 

Less than a month ago.

 

She'd always been a quick study.

 

As they rounded the corner into the main chamber, she half-expected to hear Circe's broken cackle, her furious screams of repudiation; that, at least, she was spared. The shock of recognition was bad enough; Goethe himself could not have imagined a more fitting sorcerer's workshop. A massive table was packed with a collection of oddments that defied description: glassware filled with sludge, bundles of herb, scattered bones, ominous looking metal tools, crumpled paper, something that might have been a distillation tower, and a host of things less identifiable. Similar objects were crammed onto shelves and into niches in the walls, often buttressed by books and scrolls; turning her head, Michelle found herself confronted with some sort of massive, reptilian skull balanced atop a pile of paperbacks.

 

Blinking in surprise, she leaned forward for a better look. Though she was afraid to cause an avalanche by moving them to see what their titles were, there was no mistaking them: plain, perfect-bound paperback books, of the sort you'd find stocking the shelves of any bookstore in the world. The pages of the two at the top were still fairly pristine; in this kind of dank atmosphere, they'd probably be yellowed within a year or two. Biting her lip, she quickly straightened and looked away. Considered alongside Circe's numerous sins, the realization that she'd somehow managed to do a bit of shopping was hardly important, but the idea still left Michelle unaccountably disturbed.

 

She had felt the faint movement of air when Radu moved past her; she looked up now to see that he too was peering at a bookshelf, running the back of a claw along the leaning spines. He plucked a volume from the shelf, adding it to the one already tucked beneath his elbow; he gave the shelf a last assessing look before turning to proffer them both. “Later,” he said.

 

Michelle accepted them automatically, but even as she glanced down at them, Radu was moving away. She followed him carefully, picking her way amongst Circe's abandoned treasures, wary of catching a sleeve or hem on some projecting bit of detritus.

 

He led her past the living quarters; she kept her eyes carefully averted from the slab she'd spent so much time shackled to. The echoes alone had told her that the room was larger than what she'd seen of it, but she had never been inclined to explore it, even in search of an exit, and did not relish the opportunity now. More shelves, with smaller tables set between them; piles of ragged fabric that might have been bedding, laundry, or the spoils of grave robbing were strewn here and there. Unwilling to speculate any further, she stole a look at the tomes Radu had pressed upon her.

 

One was a massive thing, nearly quarto sized; its thick leather binding had come unmoored from its spine, flapping rottenly against her wrist. It bore no title, and she felt the rough edges of cut pages when she brushed it with her thumb; it might have been anything from a grimoire to a diary, but what was contained with its pages had obviously been of great importance to the binder. The second was of much more recent vintage, worn, dark green cloth over board, and in much better shape; it had borne a title at one point, but the years had left it little more than a faint gold gleam upon the cover. Michelle wondered if they had merely stopped to pick these up; the Vladislas library was amazingly comprehensive, but surely someone of Circe's skills and longevity would have possessed some true rarities. If Radu was determined to educate her in at least the rudiments of whatever dark powers he and Circe had seemed to share, this was undoubtedly an excellent place to start. Later, indeed.

 

Lost in her thoughts, she came up short as Radu finally halted before a short, iron-banded wooden door set into the far wall. If it had been locked, she had not seen him unlock it; he wrapped his fingers around the thick iron ring and hauled it open, eliciting a deep groan and a shower of dust. His lip curled in disdain as he brushed his sleeve clean; he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped aside, gesturing for her to precede him.

 

The muscles of her stomach clenched involuntarily as she contemplated the dim prospects that awaited her beyond that door, but she knew better than to protest. Clasping the books to her chest like a shield, she ducked her head and stepped through.

 

Descending the short flight of steps, she was at least able to appreciate the irony in her relief being due to the fact that it was simply more corpses. The familiar tombs dominated the open space, some with withered bodies arranged upon them, some not, along with the carefully stacked arrangements of bones in grottoes along the walls. The only major difference here was the presence of actual caskets, stored neatly in shelves hewn from what appeared to be living stone. She didn't know nearly enough to date them, but their presence added a new wrinkle; what little history she and her friends had been able to unearth had indicated that the Vladislas line had gone extinct, in the more typical sense of the word, long before coffins had come into common use. Still, they were nobility; they would have had access to such things long before they became widely available, and would probably have been a great deal more inclined to respect their dead than most.

 

She did wonder at the crypt's very existence, however. She wasn't certain when the knowledge of embalming had come to this part of Europe, but she was fairly confident it had been too late to do most of those interred here any good. Still, the castle itself was less than fifty miles from here, a journey that could be made on foot in a day or two, if need be; transportation couldn't have been that great of an issue. Was it a class issue, with only the favored of the king being permitted burial at the castle? Had there been a cadet branch of the family—cousins, rather than direct descendants? Had some tragedy necessitated a mass burial that had been commemorated later on?

 

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but she realized that she had more pressing concerns, and suspected that the answer was probably not something she truly wanted to hear; she had a brief, horrid vision of Radu snapping his fingers, and one of his long deceased relations sitting up to answer her in wheezing, lipless speech. She quickened her steps, no longer able to regard the serried ranks of tombs with her previous equanimity.

 

They came at last to a narrow, arched doorway at the far corner of the room; no door barred their passage this time, and Radu stepped through without a glance in her direction. She followed him as rapidly as she could without crowding him.

 

She wasn't certain what she'd expected to find through this passage, but it certainly wasn't what confronted her. A long, high-ceilinged tunnel stretched before them, the darkness within so thick that even her acute vision had trouble piercing it. The walls were thoroughly inoffensive, plain maroon brick; the ground on which she stood might have been cement. Two raised walkways ran alongside each wall, divided by a wide channel that contained a slight trickle of water. A sewer, she supposed, although if it had been truly used as such, it had been abandoned for decades; she could smell nothing but damp stone, mildew, and the pervasive, ripe dankness she had come to associate with being underground. “Where are we?” she asked, startled by the unexpected volume of her speech within the walls' confines.

 

“On no map,” he rumbled, setting forth. His steps were slow enough that she wondered if the nearly pitch blackness troubled him, as well. “Such passages run throughout the city; it is useful to be able to move unnoticed in more conventional methods.”

 

An obvious enough answer, but one she would have to be content with; as expansive a mood as he seemed to be in this evening, there was no predicting when a seemingly reasonable question would provoke him into irritation. There was still the mystery of his earlier edginess; what meeting these other vampires was truly going to entail; his wife.

 

Was she going to be awaiting them?

 

The chill that ran through Michelle at the thought was enough to cause her steps to falter. It was an idea too terrifying to contemplate, but she couldn't simply refuse to consider it; there was a very real chance it was about to become a serious issue for her. It was all too plausible. He'd explicitly told her he'd meant to keep her alive, to bear his children; had spoken of finding another mortal girl, when Michelle was ready. Had he made that same promise to another of his ilk before returning to Prejnar in the first place? As swiftly as he'd sought his mother's aid, Michelle assumed he would have done the same with the presumptive wife, but it didn't signify.

 

Hadn't Dracula traditionally had three brides?

 

She clutched the books ever more tightly, her thoughts racing. It was the first time he'd ever mentioned it; one of the few times he'd spoken of his long, winding past. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he'd been married at some, possibly several points in history; arranged marriages of state, misguided attempts at pet-keeping, perhaps even genuine affection, as far as that went for him. Yet it was hard to convince herself that he would inform her of such an important fact in such an offhand manner when he had plotted the deaths of her loved ones in the same casual fashion.

 

So be it. If there was a Lady Vladislas to contend with, it might even be to her advantage. She might be perfectly happy to have Michelle out of the way. She might be just as happy to rip Michelle to shreds in a jealous rage. Either way, it would be over.

 

But the night's true peril was only just beginning. They drew abreast of a yawning archway cut roughly into the brick; once again, Radu stopped and indicated that she should proceed. She stepped through slowly, wondering if this was some aberrant attempt at courtesy, or if he was merely using her as a canary in a coal mine.

 

She was faced almost immediately with another brick wall; puzzled, she nearly stepped back until she realized that there was a gap a few feet to her left. Shifting the books to rest on her hip, she raised her free arm and shuffled sideways until she could squeeze her way through it. Her arm struck something square and unyielding as she stepped into the open space, and it took her a moment to identify the sound it produced: the faint tinkle of glassware.

 

She moved forward quickly to make room for Radu, gazing about her as she did. More than enough light to see by seeped beneath the crack of a door at the far end of what seemed to be a fairly sizable room. Its true size was difficult to determine, as it was crowded, in some places from floor to ceiling, with neatly stacked towers of wooden crates and cardboard boxes, the uniformity broken in a few places by what appeared to be furniture, shrouded against the dust and damp. After their winding journey, it seemed almost too prosaic; it might have been any warehouse or storage basement in the world. She glanced back at Radu, uncertain that this was their true destination; his head was cocked in an attitude of attention, and he raised a finger for silence.

 

“This—this is _absurd_.” Michelle's shoulders jerked involuntarily at the sudden sharp crack of a female voice, the anger so thick it was nearly sputtering; Radu grinned. “This can't go on any more! I have to draw the line somewhere--”

 

“You will draw it where I wish it to be drawn,” a silken male voice replied; the tone was smooth and mellifluous, but it was impossible to miss the aggravation growing within it. “Such matters have never been your concern.”

 

Silence, then, pregnant and charged. “They could be.” The woman's voice was low, almost guttural with some unnameable emotion. “They _should _be.”

 

“Not at this rate.” The man's voice was lighter now, amused. “There are more pressing matters. What of Anton? What of Walter?”

 

A ragged hiss of breath; Michelle could practically feel the woman clenching her teeth. “I've arranged the meeting. It should be settled tomorrow night, but I _still _think--”

 

The light touch on her arm startled her enough that she lost the thread of the conversation; she felt a flush of guilt at eavesdropping, despite it being Radu's intention. He pulled her forward gently, offering unnecessary guidance throughout the stacks of crates; as they entered the open space before the door, he tucked her hand around his forearm, giving her his elbow, as he had the previous evening. She resettled the books more comfortably against her hip, trying her best to steel herself in the brief time she had remaining; she was about to come face to face with whatever awaited her.

 

Radu laid a hand flat against the door, preparing to push it open; he stopped, turned, and nuzzled her hair briefly. She blinked in surprise, not certain what to make of his gesture of—reassurance?--but there was no more time. He pushed the door open; the light spilling through, dim as it was, was almost enough to blind her as they stepped into the room beyond.

 

The woman's shocked gasp grated against her hearing like a file, but Michelle was more astonished to realize that the woman was _alive. _Now that she was aware of it, it was hard to believe she hadn't known from the first: the thunder of her heart, the whisper of her breathing, the slither of blood through her veins; Michelle was certain she'd get the salty tang of nervous sweat, were she to draw breath. For the first time in far too long, outside of the hunt, she shared a room with someone that was alive, mortal, _human._

 

The other person in the room... was not.

 

It was all Michelle could do to keep from gaping; she was sure some flicker of awe had passed over her face, and could only hope it would not come back to harm her. Radu was a thing unto himself, monstrous and alien; the man before her was just as inhuman, but as far removed from Radu as he was from her. Perfect auburn ringlets cascaded past a face that would have made Michaelangelo weep, framing eyes like midnight; high cheeks, strong jaw, full lips. His utter and complete pallor should have marred the picture he presented, but served only to enhance the striking beauty of his features. He might have been an elven prince, stepping out of the darkest aspect of a fondly remembered fairy tale. She reminded herself fiercely that he was _not, _was a cold, dead thing like the rest of them; but even knowing what she knew, being what she was, it was a hard truth to hold onto, when confronted with such a presence.

 

“Master,” he breathed.

 

Radu inclined his head regally. “Ash.”

 

He recovered himself smoothly, folding his hands before himself in an attitude of attention. “What brings you to Bucharest, my lord?”

 

“Vengeance, Ash,” Radu rumbled, “as ever.”

 

That gave the angelic apparition a second's pause, and just that easily, the spell was broken. Michelle straightened her shoulders, drawing herself to her full height as subtly as she could; she supposed that Radu being willing to speak to him indicated that he wasn't planning immediate violence, but one could never be sure.

 

“It is my fondest wish to assist you in whatever you desire.” Ash's head dipped subserviently. “Our resources are, as always, at your disposal.”

 

“I require the seventh level.”

 

Another flicker; another slight crack in that glorious facade. “It still lies in ruins, my lord. There are more suitable accommodations available in the western wing--”

 

“The western wing does not please me,” Radu growled.

 

“I'll see to it immediately,” the woman interjected. Michelle's eyes flew to her; she had nearly forgotten her presence.

 

“No,” Ash snapped harshly, in the same instant Radu turned to regard her. She retreated a half-step, but her expression remained carefully neutral despite her suddenly pounding heart rate. Michelle was impressed, despite herself; comfortable with vampires she might be, but this couldn't be an ordinary occurrence. Dark haired and dark eyed, clad in a neatly cut suit, she might have been twenty five or forty five, possessed of a hard, lacquered beauty. As enthused as Michelle had initially been by the prospect of living company, she found herself wondering exactly what sort of person could willingly consort with the undead in such a calm fashion.

 

“The seventh level is forbidden to you and yours,” Radu said, returning his attention to Ash. It had the tenor of an old threat.

 

“Of course, my lord. All shall be as you say. Will you require refreshment for yourself or your guest?” For the first time, his gaze flicked to Michelle, brief and somehow furtive.

 

Radu seemed willing to accept the cue; his fingers spread possessively over her arm. “My newest fledgling. Michelle.”

 

Ash swept her an elegant bow, bending deeply over his extended arm. “It is an honor, my lady.”

 

Uncertain of how to respond, her mind racing with the sudden revelation, Michelle tried her best to imitate the nod Radu had given him. “Thank you.” Newest. _Newest. _She had been confused enough when, despite her most fearful imaginings, they had been met with a welcome that bordered on the obsequious, but she was willing to bet that was why. Ash had been a fledgling too, once upon a time; Ash probably had a very good idea of what she was currently enduring.

 

He straightened, apparently satisfied with her response. “You will find the selection most improved, I trust. One of the rarest pleasures available to our kind... but to you and the lady it is, of course, a simple courtesy.”

 

“Perhaps later.” Radu raised his head, as if to inspect the ceiling. “I must pay my respects.”

 

“Certainly.” Did she detect a thread of discordant unease in that rich tone? “Do not let me detain you a moment further. This way, please.” Bowing once again, he turned and moved towards the door. “Iris, remove yourself.”

 

“No.” Radu gently extricated himself from her light grip and, reaching out, took the books from her. He extended them to the woman. “Leave these in the narthex.”

 

She accepted them gingerly, her wrists trembling slightly at the weight, and though her eyes were fixed on Radu's fingers, splayed across the cover of the smaller book, her tone was flawlessly polite as she responded, “At once.” Hefting them in her arms, she backed away carefully.

 

“Very good,” Ash said. “If you will allow me to escort you upstairs?” He gestured invitingly toward the door. Radu laid a hand on the small of her back, nudging her forward.

 

The door gave out onto a long, narrow hallway, paneled floor to ceiling in thick, dark wood that shone faintly with generations of polishings, carved elegantly into crown moldings. A thick, Persian carpet runner swallowed their steps as they made their way down it, its edges patterned with a motif of thorned vines. Heavy doors appointed with dully gleaming brass studded the hall at regular intervals, and between them, here and there, were richly upholstered sofas and small tables bearing a variety of curios.

 

The aura was one of Victorian grandeur, but as they walked, Michelle could not help but notice its flaws. The sofas were shiny and threadbare with use, the tables often scratched or chipped; even the rug itself had probably been light-colored, once upon a time, before years of feet had ground it tan. There was a distinct impression of second best, here; things too good to be thrown away, but no longer suitable for public display. Servants' quarters? An interesting thought.

 

Ash seemed content to hurry them to their destination, and well he might be; despite his charming demeanor, he had to know that no good could come of their unexpected intrusion. Perhaps he found the prospect of dealing with something Radu thought worthy of respect as unnerving as she did; perhaps he was hoping this was merely some whim, and that they would be departing as quickly as they'd come. Though Radu's insistence on the seventh level betokened a longer stay... unless that was their current destination.

 

It was he who finally broke the silence. “How fare you, here?”

 

“Flourishingly,” Ash responded. “The brothel and casino provide us with a surfeit of income, and all else continues as it should.” He turned his head, one deep blue eye visible over his shoulder. “Though there have been a series of troubling incidents lately...”

 

“There have.” Michelle tried to steal a glance at Radu's face, but her attention was caught by one of the doors opening. She had an impression of wide, staring eyes set in a pale face before the figure was obscured in a rustle of black fabric. She had a chance to realize that it was curtsying before Ash's hand flew to the knob and wrenched the door shut.

 

“Forgive her,” he said quietly, affecting a moue of embarrassment. The door he had slammed was the second to last, save the massive one that dominated the end of the hall. Ash opened it with ease, but Michelle could tell from its thickness that it had to weigh hundreds of pounds; if her quick glance at its edge was correct, the ubiquitous dark wood probably fronted a metal, fireproof core.

 

It opened onto a narrow flight of spiral stairs, carpeted in a dark, bottle green; the walls were papered in a delicate, repeating design that struck her as French. _Like a bordello, _she thought. A brothel, he'd said; she thought she'd heard correctly, as hard as it was to believe. She'd grappled with the difficulties of earning a living within the restrictions imposed upon her, and supposed that was one way to do it, but the ramifications were deeply unsettling.

 

It grew harder and harder to concentrate on her misgivings; as they mounted the stairs, a low, throbbing buzz began to dominate her hearing, making it difficult to think. Too organic to be machinery, she couldn't determine what it was, as it seemed to rise and fall like the rush of the sea. By the time they reached the first landing, her teeth were on edge. When they stopped on the second, it was all she could do to block it out; she could feel the beginning of a tension headache building at the corners of her eyes.

 

Ash opened a twin of the door they'd just come through, and she nearly staggered as the roar of sound washed over her. People; it was _people,_ talking, laughing, whispering amongst themselves, dozens, perhaps more than a hundred heartbeats drumming in discordant cacophony. For a moment, she was utterly overwhelmed; she thought she felt Radu tense slightly beside her. Ash merely turned back to them with a smile. “Welcome to Club Muse, my lady.”

 

She looked over at him, grateful for one small thread to focus on in the chaos that suddenly beleaguered her; a rock on which to brace herself against the raucous noise of humanity that assailed her. Their eyes met for the first time, and she saw that Ash knew _exactly _how bad it was for her; the smile was friendly, but a wicked pleasure in her discomfort danced in his gaze. Worse: she thought at first that it was merely the further onset of her headache, but soon realized that the shivery, slithering sensation in her skull was none of her own doing. Whatever strange talent she had manifested the night before, whatever Radu had done to freeze her with his mere gaze, Ash could do too.

 

He was much, much better at it.

 

She set her jaw firmly, knowing it was hopeless to try to stare him down, but unable to think of anything else to do. Ash's smile might have widened fractionally; he lowered his gaze, turning away to stride out into the earsplitting sea.

 

She laid a hand on Radu's forearm almost unconsciously. He covered it briefly with one of his own, but quickly withdrew; she found herself shocked at how disheartening she found the loss of contact. Miserably, she realized it only made sense. They had to go out into this; he had to keep his hands hidden.

 

Closing her eyes a brief moment, she did her best to block out the sounds, trying to bolster herself against the coming onslaught. Lifting her head, she opened her eyes, and let Radu lead her into the maelstrom.


	3. Chapter 3

Like so many of life's terrifying activities—skydiving, hang gliding, bungee jumping—Michelle found it easier to deal with the incessant din of the club's patrons once she was out in it, if only because she had no option but to get it over with. Ash remained a step or two ahead of them, and handled the problem of moving Radu through a public area without attracting unwanted attention rather elegantly. Though they stayed close to the walls, they did not skulk; their brisk, purposeful pace seemed to deflect eyes uninterested in the movements of the staff. As she adjusted to the dull roar enough to take note of her surroundings, she realized that the club itself probably worked in their favor; this did not strike her as the sort of place where a wise person took too much notice of the affairs of those around them.

  
  


Not that Club Muse was a seedy establishment. Quite the opposite; Michelle had been in places so richly appointed only a handful of times in her life, and then only on very special occasions. The vividly patterned carpet, the intricate furniture, the silk and velvet drapes hung between decorative pillars, were ostentatious to the point of near vulgarity, but the overall dark colors and carefully dimmed lighting somehow brought it all together in a harmonious package.

  
  


She was willing to bet they were mere stage dressing for the real action, however. As they moved through the room, it was impossible to miss the roulette wheels and craps tables; she supposed that the knots of men in evening dress, each table attended by a uniformed employee, were playing cards. It was a bit surprising to see such things so openly—though, now that she thought on it, it might well be perfectly legal in Romania—but, then, that was probably a large part of the attraction. Monte Carlo it was not, but it sufficed as a decent approximation.

  
  


What she could not understand, even as her ears became inured to it, was why it was so _loud._ It had taken a bit for her to adjust to her sharpened senses, but she had been out in public since; nothing short of the snarl and clatter of large trucks could break her concentration any more. Yet here the mere sound of conversation and the clicking of dice was almost enough to overwhelm her; even the subtle thunder of their heartbeats was a distraction, all out of sync. It grew easier to withstand the more she worked to tune it out—she had learned very early on that focusing on one thing to the exclusion of all others was a good tactic when feeling overwhelmed; the rhythmic whir of the roulette wheels provided an excellent touchstone—but it was still unnerving. Had Ash _done _something to make it worse?

  
  


Or was it merely the result of conditioning? Truth be told, she could not exactly recall the last time she had found herself among a crowd; even out on the streets, she moved at hours when most people were quietly abed. The distant sound of traffic and the faint chorus of snores behind the sounds of a handful of people awake and walking the streets did not compare with a crowded room of people talking, laughing, and drinking. Radu himself had seemed slightly taken aback by it; could this be what he had meant about not caring for company? She could scarcely believe it, but she suddenly found herself thinking of the ancient stillness of the castle with longing. It didn't really matter; there was no doubt in her mind that the lower levels they had initially entered were soundproofed, and hopefully they would soon be able to retreat to them.

  
  


A large, rectangular archway took up most of one corner of the room, shrouded in red velvet curtains, tied back as if before a stage; it was there that Ash led them. Blessedly dark, the noise was somewhat abated in this smaller room; the long, dark bar that ran along the opposite wall seemed to demand privacy. The few men ranged along its length did not seem to take the slightest notice of their entry.

  
  


Her attention was quickly drawn to the booth in the near corner. Gauzy swathes of violet material shrouded what seemed to be another doorway; above it, a Vaudevillian sign, yellowed with age, proclaimed it to belong to THE ORACLE in ornate, flowing script. It seemed that this was their destination; Ash drew to a halt before it, his hands folded before him. “I'm sure you'll be seen,” he murmured. Radu turned to look down at him, and whatever Ash saw in his face froze his own expression into wary blankness.

  
  


Gently divesting himself of her grip, Radu stepped forward, raising a hand to scratch lightly at the wooden paneling beside the fabric. He paused, head cocked, and as he waited for a response, Michelle felt the first stab of real dread make its way through the whirl of confusion and surprise she'd been in since their arrival. If he was wary enough of whatever lurked beyond that curtain to wait for its permission, she did not want to meet it; if this was Nicolescu's sire, she wanted to turn tail and run.

  
  


If a summons issued from within, she didn't hear it, but presently, Radu carefully divided the diaphanous cloth with a nail, parting it just enough to permit himself entrance. His demeanor gave no indication as to whether or not she was meant to follow, but as he passed through, he held the curtains apart an extra moment. Taking it as a request, Michelle caught the swirling edge and entered with a heavy, measured tread.

  
  


For a moment she could see nothing but the back of Radu's coat, as the space seemed barely large enough to contain them both, but as he sidled aside, she found herself nonplussed once again. They were in a grandiose, fantasy interpretation of a gypsy's lair, from the silks hung from the ceiling in emulation of a tent's roof to the gaudy embroidered hangings on the walls. A small table stood before them, covered in a fringed cloth; atop it was the obligatory crystal ball, its surface warped and clouded like a child's marble. Small lamps were hidden behind the hangs, their diffuse, colored light giving the small room an unreal, carnival atmosphere; incense smoked in a brazier, thickly enough that Michelle slitted her eyes and was grateful that she had no need to breathe it.

  
  


The woman seated behind the table was dressed to match the décor: brightly colored skirts and a loose white peasant blouse, her forearms dripping with bangles. But instead of the expected headscarf and hoop earrings, she wore a small cloche hat, which seemed primarily in place to secure the heavy lace veils that shrouded her face so heavily that even Michelle had trouble discerning her features in the low light. But the hands that rested in her lap were twisted with arthritis and spotted with age and, as Michelle watched, one of the heavy varicose veins in her wrist began to twitch. With a growing sense of wonder, she realized that this woman was alive, too.

  
  


Even more surprising was Radu's behavior. He sank to one knee before the woman, inclining his head for a moment; then, delicately reached out and took her hands. She quickly looked up, seeming to take notice of them for the first time, though from the angle of her neck Michelle realized that she was looking away from both of them. Slowly and methodically, she shifted her grip and began to carefully stroke his hands. When she reached the ends of his fingers, with their strange extra joint, she looked down at him. “You've returned.” Her voice was far from the wizened creak Michelle would have guessed; the rich contralto carried a strange note of restraint.

  
  


“Oh, yes.” Radu's voice was soft, almost a purr. He clasped her hands once more in his own. “Did you ever truly doubt?”

  
  


She shifted, and some trick of the light gave Michelle her profile; her lower face was a mass of wrinkles, twisted in what might have been a smile. “I'd hoped.” Her tone was definitely rueful.

  
  


Radu answered her with a soft chuckle. “I have long since given up such foolishness.”

  
  


“So I see.” The woman raised her head, and Michelle realized that the previous statement had been hyperbole: the woman's eyes were nearly solid white, thick and milky with cataracts. Yet her regard seemed as fixed and precise as any other's; Michelle had the uncomfortable sensation of being not only examined, but judged. She would normally have dismissed such a feeling as credulous foolishness, unease heightened by an environment designed to take advantage of it, but in this place, surrounded by people such as these, she might be closer to the truth than was precisely safe.

  
  


“Await me without, Michelle.” The statement was so softly spoken that for a moment she had trouble making sense of it; Radu's attention never wavered from the woman. She came to herself with a start, grateful for the opportunity to make her escape.

  
  


“Michelle.” She turned back, startled by the sound of her name in the woman's mouth; but it seemed she had merely been tasting it. When no further comment was forthcoming, she quickly backed through the curtains and into the relative freedom of the bar.

  
  


Stepping back into the paneled room was almost like entering another world; her sense of relief was nearly palpable. After all the things she had seen and done, witnessing such a strange and almost tender reunion should not have rattled her so badly, but she was deeply glad to be free of whatever intimacy took place in that tiny room. Almost despite herself, she attempted to sharpen her hearing in an attempt to keep an ear on their conversation; the omnipresent noise of the patrons was enough to screen it from her.

  
  


She stepped away from the entrance, crossing her arms awkwardly, and wondered what she was supposed to do with herself in the meantime. Wait, obviously, but she found herself utterly adrift in the current situation. Ash had disappeared, taking his mysteries with him, for which she was grateful; she hadn't really expected to find a friend in him, nor was she certain she'd made an enemy, but she didn't feel up to facing him alone. The headache was pernicious enough that she thought it was merely coincidence; but though she couldn't put it into words—didn't really know what it _was—_she knew he'd been doing _something _to her. Had it merely been an assessment—perhaps even an attempt to greet her in a way Radu wouldn't notice? She couldn't really make herself believe it was that innocent. She didn't even know what purpose he truly served here; was he a welcoming host, or an unlucky attendant forced to wait on them?

  
  


She cupped her elbows and hugged herself tightly. This would be a terrible time to make a run for it—given Radu's previous reactions, she could only imagine how much worse it would be were she to embarrass him in front of his kindred—but a small, strident part of her insisted it was the only sane option. This place held too many variables; too many threats.

  
  


A brief flash of movement from the other end of the room caught her attention; she looked over to see that the bartender had abandoned his post and was approaching her with a tray. Disconcerted, she shook her head tightly; he seemed to take no notice as he arrived at her side and offered the tray, laden with a single glass goblet holding a deep red wine.

  
  


“No, thank you,” she said, and repeated her best approximation of it in Romanian when he refused to budge.

  
  


His smile only widened. “For the master's special guests,” he answered in mildly accented English. Flustered, Michelle reached out and took the glass, thinking she could find a convenient table to dispose of it on later; surprisingly, the goblet's stem was warm to the touch, as if fresh from the dishwasher. The bartender nodded in acknowledgment, cradling the tray beneath his arm and departing as efficiently as he'd arrived.

  
  


Shifting her grip so that the bell of the glass rested in her palm, she realized that the entire thing was warm; nearly hot, in fact. Swirling the liquid, she noted that she'd never encountered wine quite that viscous before. Looking up beneath her lashes, she regarded the bartender, so neat in his moire vest and crisp white shirtsleeves, and marveled at the realization that he had almost certainly just served her a glass of human blood with calm, professional efficiency.

  
  


_Special guests, indeed,_ she thought darkly, staring into the depths of the glass. She didn't dare draw breath to determine its authenticity—if the simple noise of commerce was this bad, she did not want to find out what the miasma of perfume, cigar smoke, and alcohol was like—but she could not imagine what else it might be. Her mouth dried slightly at the mere thought, the gums around her fangs taking on their familiar, aching tingle, and she quickly looked away.

  
  


Where did it _come _from? She somehow doubted that the bartender had drawn a quick half-pint from his own veins... though if he were able to serve it with such equanimity, that might not be outside the realm of possibility. Ash couldn't be murdering a guest or two every night—she quickly dismissed the image of some hapless victim hung from hooks to bleed dry that thought engendered. He had mentioned the brothel as blithely as someone else might mention their garden; perhaps he hadn't been talking about vampires, as she'd assumed. That in itself was a deeply disquieting idea... but she wasn't really in any position to judge, was she? It was possible that no one had died for this; it was highly unlikely that they had ended their life with their throat slashed in an alley. There were worse things than this... and it had already been done, regardless.

  
  


The road to hell being paved with good intentions, she considered the glass once more. The idea of sustenance being presented to her in an agreeable, pleasant, _rational _fashion had never really occurred to her. Yet now that it had happened, she could certainly see its charms, though she was honest enough to admit that a great deal of them were due to the fact that the dirty work had been done for her. Still, it wasn't as if she'd ever butchered her own cattle, though she'd enjoyed steaks with great gusto.

  
  


She could moralize as she wished about her own choices in hunting as much as she wished, but the idea of volunteers, as outrageous as it sounded on the surface, was not completely absurd. Though she'd never stooped to it herself, selling plasma was a longstanding tradition for broke college students; friends and roommates had returned from the clinic with all sorts of colorful stories about the street people they'd encountered in waiting rooms. Though its end purposes were nowhere near as humanitarian, she was willing to bet that, if nothing else, Club Muse paid better.

  
  


Even if she was totally wrong... it was still here, right in her hand, awaiting her. No one was going to miss it, one way or the other.

  
  


Raising the glass to her nose, she allowed herself the barest whiff; the rich, iron smell of it was enough to overwhelm any other odors in the area. Clean and warm and wonderful, even half-sated, she was powerless to resist.

  
  


The first sip was everything she'd hoped for and more: the nourishing spread of human life washed through her, unaccompanied for the first time by the frenzied lash of bloodlust. She had to close her eyes for a moment and allow herself a moment to savor the revivifying warmth, but she wasn't overpowered by the wild need for _more. _ There was no urge to savage the prey; there was only succor.

  
  


She realized with the second sip that her tongue was mildly scalded, and hid a small smile. The contents of the glass were a bit warmer than body heat, perhaps a hundred and five degrees; just enough to make a difference. It didn't matter. Nothing was perfect.

  
  


Michelle relaxed fractionally, buoyed by the unexpected windfall she now held; she was still in dire straits, but the world could not be such a bad place if she were permitted even a few nights off from the hunt. If this was what passed for vampire civilization, it might even prove worth the perils she had already encountered; might prove worth a great deal more.

  
  


She surveyed the room once more, half-tempted to approach the bartender and thank him, though she knew he'd be puzzled by it, at the very least. At any rate, he seemed to have disappeared for the moment, leaving his scant handful of patrons unattended. She could hear what she was fairly certain was the steady rasp of Radu's voice from behind her, but the gaiety in the main room was still enough to foul her hearing—though, she was pleased to note, it did not seem to intrude on her thoughts nearly as much as it had. It was getting easier to differentiate the simpler sounds, as well: she had no trouble zeroing in on the roulette wheels, but she could identify different sets of footsteps, a faint clatter that she suspected was silverware, the high, strident tinkle of a woman's laughter--

  
  


“I'm sorry if I bothered you. Before.”

  
  


Michelle rounded on the speaker so quickly she nearly dropped her glass; the woman fell back a step, seeming almost to cringe before her. She stood nearly as tall as Michelle, her long, lean figure sheathed in a short, black silk dress reminiscent of a flapper's; the matching elbow length gloves helped complete the image. Her face was made up like a silent film star's, heavy eye-makeup framing eyes that were already drowning pools, the powder that caked her face only a shade or two lighter than the pale skin beneath, making the dark maroon lipstick even more shockingly vivid. Her expression spoke only of hurt puzzlement; as Michelle struggled to take in the sight before her, the woman's hands found each other and began to wring themselves in manic dismay. “I see I've bothered you again,” she said in a tiny voice. “I'm sorry. I'll go now--”

  
  


But the thing that drew her most about the woman's strange appearance was the choker around her neck: black lace, three red stones dangled from it on tiny chains, rubies or bright garnets. Michelle wore something similar, so closely around her throat she scarcely remembered it was there any more, but it was not until this moment that she realized that it was a sick sort of lingerie. “No,” Michelle cut her off, unaccountably moved by the woman's obvious distress and her own, fixated interest on her throat. “No, you haven't bothered me at all. I'm just—startled.”

  
  


“Oh.” The woman's face abruptly lit up with a small, secret smile of pride, her stance losing a little of its wariness. “I didn't mean to do that.”

  
  


“It's okay,” Michelle supplied, when the woman seemed disinclined to comment further. “This is a lovely place, but I've found it a bit—much,” she said in an attempt at prudence.

  
  


“Oh, yes,” the woman agreed, nodding her head energetically. “The people are so _very _noisy, but we must let them do as they wish,” she said with an exaggerated frown of disapproval. “I thought you might, so I sent Andre to bring you a drink, in case you needed one. And in case you were angry about earlier.” Her smile returned, and she gave every evidence of being extremely pleased with her own thoughtfulness.

  
  


Glasses of blood, and _before_; this must be the brief swirl of skirts they'd brushed past in their way down the lower corridor; as gormless as she seemed, concerned that her mere presence might be upsetting, this vision of Theda Bara must be one of the other vampires. Certainly the friendliest one she had yet encountered in her brief time among the undead, but she had had it painfully demonstrated just how deeply deceiving appearances could be. “I'm not angry at all. We arrived very unexpectedly.”

  
  


The woman's carefully penciled eyebrows drew down in momentary confusion, but her smile quickly reappeared. She clasped her hands together before her, and seemed perfectly content to bask in Michelle's lack of displeasure. There was something extremely strange going on here; the woman was either a terrible actress or deeply, deeply vacuous, but Michelle could not believe that there was such a thing as a stupid vampire—not for very long, anyway. She switched the glass to her free hand, extending her right hand to shake. “My name is Michelle,” she said. She might as well find out just how far this display of camaraderie went.

  
  


A puzzled expression flitted across the woman's face once more, and she extended her own hand cautiously, as if unsure of how to proceed; she took Michelle's fingers in her own limply, as if unused to the grasp. “I am Cassandra,” she said, and nearly beamed when Michelle squeezed her hand lightly. “I am very pleased to meet you, Michelle.” Her English was excellent, but there was something different from the usual Romanian roughness to her accent; a touch of a slur, an odd slipperiness around the consonants.

  
  


“Likewise, Cassandra,” she replied, withdrawing her hand. “This seems like it's going to be a very interesting time.”

  
  


“Oh, I hope so!” Cassandra said enthusiastically. “It's been so very long since anyone new has joined us—the master is very strict about such things—and even longer since anyone _exciting _has_._ Dmitri is all right, in his way, but Anton--” She broke off with a dramatic eye roll and an exaggerated shiver, words apparently inadequate to convey the unexcitingness of Anton. “You'll understand once you've met him later.” She paused suddenly, a mildly horrified expression overtaking her features as she seemed to realize that her eager prattle might not be welcome. “If you want to, that is,” she said hastily. “You certainly needn't—considering what—I mean...” she broke off helplessly, her face stricken.

  
  


“I'm sure I will, if we stay long enough,” Michelle soothed her. “I don't know how long we'll really be here.”

  
  


Cassandra nodded her understanding once again. “I saw you arrive with him.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially, her eyes flicked towards the Oracle's curtains; Michelle wondered just how long Cassandra had been watching them, and how she'd managed to do so without being noticed. “Is he really the Vladislas?”

  
  


It was hard to read anything past open curiosity on Cassandra's face, but the directness of the question gave Michelle a curious sense of unease. Still, it wasn't as if it was a secret that could be kept for very long, even on the off chance he wished it to be. “One of them,” she replied. It was only the truth.

  
  


Cassandra's hands flew to her mouth to cover an excited squeal. “Oh, Dmitri didn't believe me, but I _knew _it was! Who else could it be, appearing among us so, with such an elegant lady upon his arm? The master has told us tales of him, but he hasn't been among us in, oh, longer than I know. _Really?_” She clapped her hands, then leaned forward to give a greater illusion of privacy. “Is he truly everything that they say?”

  
  


Michelle, taken aback by the gleeful enthusiasm, was at a loss for words; she had known teenage girls less excited at the prospect of meeting their favorite musicians than Cassandra currently seemed to be. As to who 'they' might be, and what they might be saying, she could not begin to guess. She knew very well what _she _would say, but doubted that she would find a sympathetic ear in Cassandra, no matter how girlishly charming she seemed. “And more,” she said shortly.

  
  


Cassandra's face fell once more. “I don't mean to pry--”

  
  


“Cassandra, stop _bothering_ her,” a familiar voice snapped; Michelle turned her head to see the woman who had been speaking to Ash when they'd arrived approaching them rapidly; the neat cut of her pant suit combined with the compressed anger on her face gave her the look of an avenging accountant. “Go to your room,” she ordered as she drew abreast of them. Cassandra shrank before her, as cowed as a disciplined child.

  
  


“She isn't bothering me,” Michelle said evenly, a faint spark of annoyance smoldering within her at the woman's presumption. “We were having a conversation.” Cassandra straightened beside her, a faint smile, almost a smirk, playing around her lips.

  
  


The woman shot Cassandra a dark, quelling look, but the face she presented to Michelle was smooth professionalism. “Then forgive me for interrupting. Ash has asked me to inform you--”

  
  


“The master told _me _to ask them!” Cassandra interrupted petulantly.

  
  


“And have you?”

  
  


“My companion is currently... occupied,” Michelle informed her, casting a meaningful glance at the Oracle's booth; she did not know what significance the fortune teller held with these people, but it was enough to give the woman pause. “I'm sure Cassandra will deliver the message as soon as he's rejoined us.”

  
  


“I will,” Cassandra insisted with a sullen tone. “I was _going _to.”

  
  


“I see.” She gave the vampire a flat, unreadable look, but this time Cassandra, apparently secure in Michelle's defense of her, didn't budge. She turned her attention once more to Michelle. “My apologies, once again; I'll leave you to enjoy the night. If there is anything we can do to assist you, don't hesitate to ask; we at Club Muse live to serve.”

  
  


Michelle caught the ironic glint in the woman's eye, and was cheered by it; she smiled and nodded. “Thank you. I will.” The woman inclined her head in acknowledgment, and withdrew discreetly.

  
  


Cassandra waited until she was a respectable distance away before folding her arms and scowling prettily. “Iris is _mean_,” she said, then sniffed disdainfully. “It's only because she's jealous. She pants after the master as if she's in heat, but he'll never give her what she wants. I'm sure she wants to draw your attention in hopes that you or your lord will... as if either of _you _would have her if the master won't.”

  
  


“Servants are always difficult,” Michelle prevaricated. Just that easily she had gone from having an almost pleasant conversation to wading in local politics whose depths she couldn't begin to fathom.

  
  


“Aren't they? Not here, though,” Cassandra assured her. “She was right; you can tell the servants to do whatever you want, and they will. Except for her. Usually.” Her smile this time was distinctly unpleasant, but brightened quickly as she indicated Michelle's glass with a red-painted nail. “Do you like it?”

  
  


“Oh, ah, yes,” Michelle said hastily; she'd nearly forgotten she was holding it. “I've... never had anything quite like it before.”

  
  


“Ilyana.” Cassandra beamed. “She's my favorite. I thought you'd be pleased.”

  
  


Michelle tried to keep the sudden queasiness from her face. “I'll have to thank her.”

  
  


“If you like,” Cassandra replied, a faint note of incomprehension threading her voice. “I could try to find her, I suppose...” She turned away to scan the room, and Michelle was grateful for the moment that allowed her to set her mouth expressionlessly. She had been foolish to forget what she was dealing with for even a moment. No matter how friendly, how open, how _normal _any of them seemed, they were still monsters. All of them. Even her, she thought with an inner wince, fingering the stem of the glass unhappily.

  
  


“My pretty one is gracious.” The guttural sound of Radu's voice came a second before his palms settled on her shoulders, his fingers fanning over her biceps; her fingers clenched on the goblet so tightly that she could have swore she felt the glass bend beneath her fingers. Damn him, damn his stealthiness, and damn his apparent disregard for who saw what in the bar.

  
  


Her reaction was still nowhere near as dramatic as Cassandra's. She fell back two steps, almost scurrying, her hands once more resuming the anguished wringing she had initially greeted Michelle's presumed displeasure with. Her eyes were raised to stare beyond Michelle's shoulder, the kohl ringing their edges making them look inhumanly wide and panicked. Then she seemed to remember herself, taking the edges of her skirt and dropping a robotic, stilted curtsy, her gaze never leaving Radu as she did. “Lord,” she whispered, then caught her lip between her incisors, as if afraid she had transgressed merely by addressing him.

  
  


Michelle found herself aggravated and chilled in equal measure by the pathetic display. It angered her to see this chipper, if vacuous, woman suddenly reduced to such cringing servility... but it was entirely of her own accord. Perhaps familiarity had bred contempt; it was still hard to internalize that she found herself in society. These people knew each other, or at least of each other; they had history she couldn't begin to guess at, and she wondered what they knew that made them so wary of Radu when they seemed to outnumber him easily.

  
  


She felt Radu's hair brush against hers as he made some movement, but Cassandra remained still, watching with fearful, wondrous awe. Unable to bear it any longer, she prompted as gently as she could, “Wasn't there something you were supposed to tell us?”

  
  


“Oh!” Cassandra straightened abruptly, her hands fisting briefly at her sides before they vanished behind her back as she drew herself to attention; Michelle noted the sinuous, predatory glide of her movements, even when discomfited, and wondered how she had ever doubted for a moment that this woman was a vampire. “The master has asked that... there is to be a special entertainment this evening, and he wishes for you both to attend. I-if you would. In the lower salon. At midnight.” Her speech grew ever choppier, for all the world like a small child called on to recite before the class and desperately struggling to recall the material; she stuttered to a halt and regarded them unhappily, as if she longed for approval and knew she wouldn't get it.

  
  


She could feel Radu's low, noncommittal noise rumble against her back; Cassandra's lips drew down further, anxious at the prospect of a refusal. “Tell your master that we shall join him,” he said.

  
  


Cassandra nodded so sharply that Michelle was almost surprised they did not hear the bones of her neck creak; without a word of goodbye, she turned on her heel and sped off into the main room, as if the news of their attendance was of the utmost importance. Perhaps it was; she suspected that special entertainments here ran towards the grand guignol. They might need to lay extra place settings.

  
  


Sickened at her own morbidity, she stepped away with a shudder, setting the glass upon the sideboard in revulsion; Radu let her go, his left arm sliding up to rest on her shoulders. He sighed; she looked up, unused to such mild expressions from him, and saw that he was watching Cassandra's departure. “A waste.” He shook his head, his hand slipping down lightly to rest at the small of her back, and urged her to follow. “She wishes to see you.”

  
  


Michelle, confused, thought for a moment that he meant Cassandra, who had already vanished; realizing who he must be referring to, she paused to glance back at the Oracle's shrouded, unbelievable room. “Later,” he said, pressing her forward. “She will send for you.” He folded his hands into awkward fists, tucking them into his pockets, and before she had a chance to question him further, they were engulfed once more in the roar of the main room.

  
  


Somewhat prepared for it this time, the noise was not quite so overwhelming, but it was still intensely unpleasant; now that the pain had receded, the confusion set in. All of the little hallmarks she had fixed her senses upon in the other room blended once more into the din, and she found herself adrift; she wasn't certain if she would have been able to discern Radu's voice among the many, even if he had spoken into her ear. It was nearly as bad as being blind; she had never realized just how much she had come to rely on her supernatural hearing until she was effectively deprived of it.

  
  


Gratitude hurried her steps as she caught sight of the velvet swags that tastefully obscured the service door they had emerged from; Radu, for once, seemed to share her eagerness. He stepped close to the door, using the curtains and his body to shield his hands as he opened the door; they hurried through, closing it on the noise outside with a welcome snap of engaged seals.

  
  


Michelle couldn't resist a sigh of relief, her shoulders slumping; she straightened guiltily when Radu arched an eyebrow in amusement. “The perils of civilization,” he murmured as he began to descend the stairs.

They climbed down in silence, for a time; Michelle, at least, was enjoying the ever-receding tide of sound and the surprisingly blessed quiet. It was nearly silent by the time they passed the door they had initially entered the stairwell by, that led to what Michelle thought of as the servants' quarters. But that was where they had encountered Cassandra; she and the other vampires she had mentioned must dwell somewhere within. Though even if she did rest there, given her behavior, that didn't necessarily mean Michelle was wrong. She wasn't certain why she thought those doors had hidden bedchambers; given the number of them, that might have been the brothel itself. Cassandra might have been coming from a visit with Ilyana.

  
  


Displeased with her train of thought, she made herself concentrate on their progress. They were descending a third flight of stairs; this one seemed to be the last, bottoming out at a small landing, similarly appointed to but slightly shabbier than the ones above it, facing a discreet door.

  
  


Passing through it, they found themselves in another storage basement, similar to the one in which they'd arrived, but this one was entirely empty. The ceiling yawned above them, seemingly higher than the depth of the stairs could account for, bracing the weight of the level above it with massively thick timbers. Tiny yellow lights dotted the walls at intervals, their illumination scant even to her sharp eyes; their feet scraped in the grit strewn along the stone floor.

  
  


Michelle was unnerved by the great, gaping space, unable to determine why such a massive place would be left so utterly barren. She bit her lip, gazing around her, but nothing out of the ordinary met her gaze; nothing at all.

  
  


Suddenly unable to bear the sound of their footsteps in the otherwise uncanny silence, she sought for the words to frame a question. “Why would the Oracle wish to see me?” Humility could be easily inferred, she hoped.

  
  


“She will tell you.” Radu's voice held a strange note; fondness, perhaps, or humor. They continued in silence for long enough that she thought that was all he had to say on the subject, when he spoke up unexpectedly. “You would do well to make an ally of her, if you can.”

  
  


_Ally_. Not a friend, but she thought it was the first time she had ever heard him acknowledge the concept of non-familial relationships, save for his dominance over her; more, he was actually suggesting she pursue one. The implications were so alien, at this point, that she scarcely knew what to make of them; she was so surprised she plodded beside him until they reached the far end, and yet another door. “I see,” she said lamely. “I'll... try,” she added, knowing she ought to appear more eager, but too bewildered to do so. What kind of person could she be, if he _wanted _Michelle to associate with her? What kind of history could they share, for her to tell Radu that she'd hoped she'd never see him again with amusement in her voice, and win laughter in return?

  
  


The stairs beyond this door where nowhere near as agreeable as the once that had brought them this far; damp, haphazardly mortared rock, they would have seemed more at home in Castle Vladislas. Worse, they fell sharply away into impenetrable, inky blackness, a sight that evoked a primeval dread in Michelle. Her vision was so attenuated to the night that even the barest scrap of illumination was sufficient for getting around by; light so dim she would have been blind in it as a mortal was as bright as daylight to her now. It had been a long while since she had seen true, pitch darkness; Radu, of course, intended for her to enter it.

  
  


The brief snap and hiss at her side seemed as loud as gunfire in the quiet, and the sudden flare of light was enough to make her slit her eyes as she turned to determine its source. For one terrible moment she thought the flame she saw extended from Radu's finger, but as he moved to replace a small box on a jutting edge of stone, she saw that he grasped a thin candle, shriveled and cracked with age. The tiny flame was both comfort and relief; it was somehow reassuring to realize that he couldn't see in this, either.

  
  


The dancing flame cast long, trembling shadows on the walls as they continued to descend, inky black smears that seemed at times to have volition of their own... and well they might, in this place. She wondered why they did not simply join that dark company and whisk their way to the seventh level, but not enough to suggest it. Perhaps he meant to show her the way, in case she ever needed to make it on her own; perhaps there were sorcerous protections around the place, preventing them from doing so; perhaps it was bad form to do it around others; perhaps he merely felt like stretching his legs. It was often difficult to determine his motivations, but they generally became clear in time, if she could muster the patience to wait him out.

  
  


Bad form, though... she wondered if there really was anything to that. The insubstantial flow of shadow had seemed impossible to her at first largely because her mind simply refused to accept the idea that it could be done; once it had been demonstrated beyond doubt, once he had _shown _her, it had quickly become second nature. Her night-eyes had been the same; though it was a little difficult to stave off the super-attenuated perceptions of the predator when she was hungry, she could usually slip in and out of it as easily as blinking. The hypnosis was the only ability she had stumbled into accidentally, and she could not yet fathom its extent, but it demonstrated the fact that such things did not necessarily need to be studied or trained.

  
  


Ash was able to do it, too, she reminded herself as they turned the corner of yet another landing. It was entirely possible that he was able to hurtle through darkness as well, but it was enough to make her wonder. He was preternatural and alien, as beautiful as Radu was monstrous... but Cassandra, though lovely, had given no real hint of her true nature until her nervousness had gotten the better of her poise. There was no telling what _she _was capable of doing, either, but there had been none of the prickle of power Michelle had come to associate with Radu and had almost immediately detected from Ash... even Stefan had carried a trace of it; enough to unnerve a disbelieving human. Then one could add sorcery into the mix, which seemed to be a wholly separate set of skills and knowledge... the mind boggled. Such abilities seemed to be innate, but were they shared equally among all vampires? It seemed impossible, but how else—were they passed along, like double-jointedness or an ear for music?

  
  


But the idea of mystical inheritance was too much for her mind to encompass at the moment and, finally, it seemed that they had run out of stairs. The passageway before them was even more rough-hewn than the one above, more a tunnel than a hall, moisture sweating freely from its stone walls. She had no idea how far below the earth they truly were, but this place seemed as if it might have been carved from bedrock; even the floor was slightly uneven beneath her feet. Only a dozen steps carried them through it, however, and Michelle was amazed by what awaited them.

  
  


The ceiling vaulted above them to a seemingly endless height, and she realized that this truly _was _a cave; she could make out stalactites in the dimness overhead, and pillars of some light-colored rock lined either side of the short gallery they now stood in; limestone, she guessed. But the true wonder was what faced them: heavy stone blocks, each nearly waist-high and longer than she was tall, were stacked upon one another to form an imposing, seemingly indestructible wall. Its length was split only by the tall door of pitted, dark metal; two more of the stone blocks lay lengthwise before it, as if to form a walkway; upon one of them laid the books Radu had given to Iris, seeming absurdly out of place before this subterranean fortress.

  
  


She might have stood there for minutes, simply wondering what feats of engineering had gone into the construction of such an edifice, and how they had been accomplished, but Radu laid his fingers upon her elbow, drawing her attention away. “Welcome,” he said softly, “to our town home.”

  
  


“I've never seen anything like this,” she breathed, and perhaps the honest awe in her voice pleased him; a corner of his mouth lifted, his face ghastly in the flickering candlelight.

  
  


“No,” he agreed, turning back to it. He raised his head, as if to admire it anew, pausing for a few moments before he approached the door. Michelle scooped the books up automatically as they passed, sparing a sympathetic thought for Iris's task; she could only imagine how awful the return climb would be for someone still subject to oxygen debt. She hoped for the woman's sake that there was an easier, alternate way to reach this place, and nearly laughed at her own foolishness; this wasn't exactly the sort of place for an elevator.

  
  


The door was, if anything, even more intimidating up close; the faint stains of rust did nothing to detract from its aura of impenetrability. It possessed no knob or ring, but a short metal bar set in a circular depression. Radu grasped it with his left hand, twisting, and as Michelle saw the tendons in his wrist bulge as he strained against it, she began to doubt that even he possessed the uncanny strength to move it; it finally moved with a low, grinding clank. Stepping back, Radu hauled it open, the tension in his arm proof of the effort it cost him; Michelle hurriedly backed away as it swung wide. Thankfully, its hinges were set so that it could be opened to lay flat against the wall beside it; Radu pressed it back, its own weight keeping it in place. He raised the candle high as he ushered her within.

  
  


It took Michelle a moment to realize that the cool, shivery feeling against her legs was not merely her own unease, but that the air inside was so stale that she was actually able to feel the currents of movement as it was exchanged with the still air inside. Radu moved past her, the jumping flame of the candle only bright enough to give her a vague impression of the interior: a lower ceiling, large, rectangular shapes, another doorway.

  
  


A moment later there was a faint, susurrus hiss, and the room was suddenly thrown into sharp relief by jagged, reddish-orange light from behind her. Whirling, she raised a hand to her eyes, the sudden brightness almost enough to bring defensive tears as she squinted against the invasive brightness. Radu was looking away as well, a wince on his face; the light came from the wall sconce he had just lit from the candle, its light a sickly, angry umber. He reached out, fumbling awkwardly, and a moment later the light dimmed. She lowered her hand, straightening, and as she watched the small flame stabilized, its color lightening towards a more welcoming glow. _Gaslight, _she realized. _It's like that because the air is bad._ She glanced over her shoulder at the entryway, wondering just how well that door truly sealed; but then, for someone who didn't need to breathe, security was paramount over airflow.

  
  


The room itself was almost a disappointment, after the grandeur of its facade: a pair of steps led down into a chamber that was nearly bare, save for another pair of blocks. It took her a moment to ascertain that they were merely twins of the ones outside, rather than more tombs; the interior was constructed of the same stone, though more neatly dressed. She laid the books upon one of them as she leaned forward to inspect a quartet of faded hangings depended from the ceilings, their crimson and maroon dusty and faded with age; three had been torn and left to dangle in shreds. _The seventh level lies in ruins_, she reminded herself as she followed Radu deeper into the edifice. Impossible to say what tragedy had taken place here; unpleasant to guess at what evidence of it might remain.

  
  


The rest of the interior did remind her very strongly of the castle; it seemed to be largely taken up by a long corridor, which gave off into rooms on either side. She had the impression that at least several of the doorways to the right led into one large room, but it was hard to be certain. The ones on the left were closed with iron bars of surprisingly elegant filigreed shapes; rococo prisons. The blocks here were smaller, though of the same lightly speckled stone, and as Radu made his way down the hall, lighting every third or fourth lamp, she saw that a carved fascia ran along the ceiling, some kind of winding, sharp pattern repeating itself. Yet as they drew towards the end of the hall it petered out, leaving a smooth blankness in its place, as if the artist had merely stepped away for a moment before returning to finish.

  
  


At the end of the corridor lay an oaken, iron-barred door of the type she had become more familiar with, and it was there that Radu led them. It swung inward easily at his touch, and this time, he preceded her. Concerned by the change, she followed him with trepidation, and froze when her foot met spongy softness. A second later, warm, golden light flooded the room, and she once again found herself bewildered by what she saw.

  
  


She stood on a runner of carpet that divided the otherwise bare floor, its rich reds and golds undimmed by the years. Though the floor was of the omnipresent stone, the walls had been faced with rich swags of silk velvet, the luster of which, even beneath their layer of dust, a wonder to behold beneath the soft light of the lamp. The furniture was mahogany, deeply red and gleaming, the care that had gone into its making evident in every curve and angle. The overall impression was of Sherlock Holmes's study dropped into a medieval dungeon, and she would never have guessed that Radu would put such thought into his surroundings; but, she realized with a sick feeling of anxiety, the simple fact of it didn't mean that he had. Though the place had obviously lain unoccupied for a long span of time, she thought she detected a woman's touch in the balance and flow of color throughout the strange chambers.

  
  


For there were more, at least two; she peered into the darkness at the far end of the room, but she was distracted by a soft sound of movement. A strangled curled of smoke escaped between Radu's fingers as he snuffed the candle. He watched her intently, as if wishing to see what she thought of this place; she suspected her surprise was writ large on her face. “We shall bide here, for a time,” he said, setting the candle into a holder on one of the small tables. Folding his hands behind his back, he approached, smiling faintly. “So. You have met Nicolescu's master. What do you make of him?”

  
  


She paused a moment, surprised at the abrupt question; the Oracle had been _alive. _But the Oracle had not been a him, either. Had he somehow escaped her notice?

  
  


Radu must have noted his confusion, for his smile widened. “Come, now. You walk within his walls, you have dined at his table, you will attend his fete. You may not gain his measure this way, but it is enough to gather an impression.”

  
  


For one horrible moment, she thought that Radu somehow referred to himself, that this had all been some twisted game with unknowable rules; when she realized who he meant, it was hard to believe she had not reached the conclusion immediately. “Ash? _Ash _made Nicolescu?” As obvious as it was, it was difficult to encompass; the slinking, sickly doctor had possessed practically nothing in common with the elegant creature she had met tonight... as little as she had with Radu, she realized belatedly.

  
  


“Even so.” Radu smile broadened into a grin at the disbelief in her voice; she realized that he probably took it as disdain, a refusal to believe Ash could have produced someone that had caused her so much trouble.

  
  


She shook her head, half dazed; she did not know how she could have missed the connection—Cassandra had called him 'master,' multiple times—but now that she saw it, could scarcely make sense of it. Yet now the thought of the faint, fuzzy sensation behind her eyes and the recollection of his knowing, wicked grin danced in her thoughts; could he himself be responsible for the confusion, compelling her not to consider her a threat as easily as she had made the waitress take her purse?

  
  


Deeply unnerved by the idea, she regarded Radu carefully. Had he even known what Ash was doing? Was he expecting her to tell him, as some sort of test of her perceptions—or would he consider the fact that Ash had been able to do it at all a weakness? Would he be angry at her for failing to protect herself, or at Ash for daring to interfere with her? She wasn't up to a conflict of either fashion; not so soon, not while she was still so adrift in this unwelcome new world. “He wasn't what I expected him to be,” she replied honestly enough, and Radu snorted in amusement. “I'd like to know more, before I decide anything.” There was no need to force steel into her voice; her vicious attitude towards Nicolescu and all his works was something even she could not dispute.

  
  


“You shall learn a great deal this evening,” he said, moving towards the back of the chamber. “We must prepare.”

  
  


“What exactly is this _entertainment _going to be like?” Michelle asked cautiously as she followed him. Visions of everything from gladiatorial combat to sacrificed virgins flitted through her imagination; she doubted it would be anything as prosaic as a poetry reading.

  
  


“Theatrical and tedious,” Radu replied, which did nothing to assuage her fears. “But you may find it provides an insight into his character, if nothing else.” The far wall seemed to be dedicated to storage: a pair of wardrobes, an armoire, a chest of drawers. Radu reached up to unlatch one of the wardrobes, beckoning her forward. “You may summon Cassandra to help you dress, if you wish.”

  
  


“I—no,” Michelle nearly sputtered, taken aback by the change of subject as much as the strangeness of the offer. “No, I think I can manage.”

  
  


He nodded noncommittally, and turned to vanish into the shadowed depths of the far chamber; she could make out nothing but indistinct shapes and the shift of his movements.

  
  


At a loss, she turned to regard the wardrobe he had opened for her. He had never seemed much interested in her material needs previously, but she supposed he expected to be able to show her off; or perhaps her scroungings in the depths of the castle had been successful enough that the problem had never really occurred to him. She wasn't certain what she expected to find, as she swung the doors open, but the suggestion that she might need assistance with it was not one that she found reassuring.

  
  


The insides were lined with a light, deeply veined wood; cedar, she guessed as her fingertips brushed against it. Its contents were shrouded by a voluminous sheet that might have been white once, but was now gray with dust; she carefully gathered it in her fists and pulled it, easing it away from its moorings. She could not help but raise her eyebrows at the garments that had sheltered beneath it: long gowns in a froth of costly fabrics, some whose names she didn't even know, like something out of a well-funded theater's costume department. But she knew without checking that these were no mere reproductions; these were antiques, sewn when their elaborate styles were still the very height of fashion.

  
  


These had belonged to someone.

  
  


The grating, whining screech took her so unawares that she dropped into a crouch as she spun around wildly, her vision hazing at the edges as she sought to determine the source of the infernal noise. A rat, a revenant, a demon, the enraged owner of the dresses—but the low, rumbling note that rose beneath the inhuman howl was strangely familiar; a moment later both ceased, giving way to a thin, driving patter. The sound was so out of place that it took a moment for her to realize what it was; when she did, the relief and absurdity were so profound that she had to press the heels of her hands against her mouth to keep from bursting into peals of laughter.

  
  


A shower. Radu was taking a shower. What she'd heard was the squeal and rattle of long-abandoned pipes.

  
  


Pipes! Plumbing, no less! Neither were things she had any cause to concern herself with anymore, but it had never occurred to her that they might be found here. But there were the lamps, weren't there? Pipes had obviously been run to carry the gas; there was no reason there shouldn't be others. She gazed around the room once more, trying to take it all in. She wasn't certain just how long gaslight had been in use, but she thought it was a fairly recent development, in the grand scheme of things. The 1850s, perhaps; surely not much earlier than that. Which meant that this place couldn't be all that old; the club has certainly possessed electricity, so there was no reason these chambers should not be as modern as its lack would permit. A town home, he had called it. She wondered if he had built it, and what might have brought him here.

  
  


Questions that were, for the moment, irrelevant. She turned back to the wardrobe, sorting through it as delicately as she could; it seemed almost a shame to rummage through things so old. But it seemed that most, perhaps even all, had come through the years intact; some colors appeared to be faded, but there was nothing here that she would so much as call shabby, once the dust that had made it past the cover had been shaken away. She also came to realize that, unless there had been a Victorian mania for short skirts that she had never heard of, these dresses had in fact belonged to several someones. They came in at least three disparate sizes, by her estimation; all of which, unfortunately, were too small.

  
  


She glanced toward the sound of the shower warily; though he had lately been as respectful of her person as he ever was, she did not want to risk him coming upon her half-dressed. There was a long white ruffled thing that she thought would do, but upon further examination, she strongly suspected that it was actually some sort of underwear. She began to sort through the hangers more hurriedly; nothing here was going to be long enough for her, but perhaps there was something that would look appropriate at knee-length.

  
  


A deep pool of fabric at the far end of the rack caught her attention, and she reached for it gladly; it was long enough that its skirts rested in folds on the floor. Casting one last cautious glance towards the bathroom, she quickly lifted her dress over her head and slithered out of it, leaving it in a filmy ball on the floor of the wardrobe; with a silent prayer that it would fit over her ribs, she carefully stepped into its replacement.

  
  


The seemingly dozens of tiny, fabric covered buttons at the back nearly defeated her, but she persevered, and was gratified to discover that it was a passable fit; the hem brushed her ankles. It had probably been meant to be worn by a much shorter person wearing a bustle of some sort; a deep maroon, the thick satin, perhaps smite, clung to her legs far more closely than she would have liked; the décolletage, accented by intricate black embroidery, plunged far too low. A corset might have rectified things, but she had no idea how to wear one; she flicked through the other long garments, not quite sure what she was looking for, but was quite pleased when she came up with a long black jacket. It was so tight across the shoulders that she doubted she'd be able to raise her arms, but it buttoned severely up the front, its high collar coming to rest just beneath her necklace. There were a number of pairs of shoes at the bottom, but a quick glance told her not to try; she would stick to her black flats, bare-legged, and hope for the best.

  
  


Stepping away, the unfamiliar weight of the skirts swirling about her legs, she ran her fingers through her hair in an attempt to fluff her curls, wondering why she bothered as she did so. She wasn't interested in the opinions of anyone who dwelled here, nor was she particularly interested in increasing Radu's prestige... but it was such a silly thing to balk over, like a child refusing to don a Sunday dress. She had made a decision to pick her battles, and if that meant that there had been none at all, it was simply because she was biding her time. That was all.

  
  


The shower still ran, and she found herself at a loss for what to do with herself. She made a lazy circuit of the room, examining its appointments once more; she briefly regretted his denial of Iris's offer to see the place opened, as much of it would be quite handsome once it had been cleaned. Which was what these rooms had been meant as, she supposed; a snug burrow to retreat within. The entire installation was an excellent place to go to ground; she had been in bomb shelters that did not feel as secure as this did.

  
  


Thinking of that great iron door, she realized that she had left the books in the outer chamber just beyond it, and wished she hadn't; they'd be a way to pass the time. Then she scowled at herself, annoyed at her own skittishness; even _he _wouldn't be irate with her for walking down a hall. Smoothing her hands down the heavy broadcloth of her jacket, she began to make her way back.

  
  


As she slipped past the door, she kept her eyes resolutely fixed on the floor, cautious of what she might come across in the other rooms, but quickly decided that was silly. She was going to find out what they contained sooner or later; if anything was actually _confined _behind those bars, she would have noticed already. Looking couldn't hurt.

  
  


Shoving aside thoughts of Bluebeard's wife, she was almost pleased by the first: another library, much smaller, almost a cubby, but much neater than the castle's. She was tempted to stop and inspect it further, but knew that that might be pushing it; besides, curiosity as to what was so about those volumes they had required rescue from Circe's den gnawed at her ever so faintly. The second was a great deal more ominous, however: completely empty save for a high, wide stone plinth, draped in lengths of thick black velvet. She hurried past, but the third was seemingly innocuous, filled only with trunks and crates.

  
  


She entered the antechamber and retrieved the books without incident. On her way back, she glanced to her right, and saw that she had been correct: the other side was indeed a single, large room that ran the length of the corridor. Intrigued—this did not seem the sort of place that required a conference room—she stepped through the archway.

  
  


She had expected a workshop, perhaps the main library, but it was indeed a conference room; the Dark Age equivalent of one, at any rate. Banners adorned the walls, bearing heraldry she couldn't begin to identify. The room was scantily furnished aside from that, save for the wooden table that ran nearly the length of the room, and the benches that went with it. Her eye followed its length, something about it not quite adding up; when she realized what she was truly seeing—what she had somehow _failed _to see—she nearly dropped the books in her rush to back away.

  
  


The table was lined with place settings on either side, pale metal that gleamed dully; it might have been brass or gold. Though they were empty, several scattered, it was obvious that they had once been able to serve a large company... for that company still remained. Corpses sat at each place, bound to the table with fetters of cobweb. Some were sprawled across the table, some twisted into postures of helpless agony, but all placed as if ready to dine; there might have been two dozen of them.

  
  


She surveyed the gruesome assemblage with horror, unable to comprehend what had happened here, why these ancient bodies had been left arrayed as they were. Surely they couldn't all have died here, even if they had been invited to feast and then poisoned, kept as trophies; nothing worked so quickly as that. Though she was loath to examine them too closely, they seemed no different from any other human remains she had ever encountered; they didn't seem to be experiments, tools, _projects. _Was this some insane sort of art? A warning?

  
  


Friends, that he wanted to keep nearby? A tribute? A ghastly sort of Round Table?

  
  


Horrified beyond measure at the prospect—unable to tolerate the idea that this might be the closest he could come to fond remembrance—she spun on her heel and fled from the room. Yet as she crossed the threshold, from the corner of her eye she caught a fleeting glimpse of scarlet, moving low and fast down the length of the hall. It was enough to stop her in her tracks, craning her head around the doorway, but she saw nothing. That didn't mean she _hadn't _seen anything; there was nothing else in the world she knew that looked or moved like that.

  
  


At least one of the subspecies was here.

  
  


Lurching back into the hall, she pressed her back against the wall, clutching the books to her chest. Though she had never known them to leave the castle before—and how had they gotten here? Scurrying?—they were the least of her problems; nothing that a good swift kick couldn't solve, whatever they were up to. But this... her eyes rose ceilingward, as if she could see her way clear through to ground level, and a way out; she tried to figure out how far she could get, were she to swirl into shadow and fly as fast as she could _now._ She was prepared to face vampires, fighting, politics; but she did not think that she could face centuries' worth of carefully crafted madness.

  
  


She'd never been able to. That was why she was here, confronted with this fresh, grisly evidence of it.

  
  


She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the cool stone. Even she could not say why the tableau had upset her so. She had seen more dead bodies these past few months than most people outside a battlefield ever did, plenty of them in worse condition than that; looked at one way, it was no different than the Vladislas catacombs in which she rested every night. But something about the way they were arranged, how _deliberate _it was, evoked some primordial dread and turned her knees to water. She didn't even want to know _why _it had happened; it was terrible enough that it had been done.

  
  


Its author awaited her at the end of the hall.

  
  


The rooms had grown silent. It was now or never, she realized; she had to flee before he realized she had gone, making the best of an unplanned dash for freedom, or she had to wipe her mind as clean as she could, return to him, and bide her time, hoping as always for a better opportunity.

  
  


The seconds ticked past like eons.

  
  


_Bodies, _she told herself, _just bodies. _For a moment she knew it wasn't enough; knew that she was going to meld into the darkness and race through the cracks in the stones, wending ever upwards... and then she straightened, pushing herself up against the wall. She stood for a moment, lips drawn down in a grimace of horror; then her features smoothed into polite inaccessibility, and she made her way back down the hall.

  
  


Radu had returned to the main room by the time she entered; he glanced over his shoulder, but did not otherwise acknowledge her. He had changed into a suit of unrelieved, funereal black; the coat was longer, past his knees, the overall cut slimmer, closer to his body; his hair, damp and deprived of its waves, hung past his shoulder blades. He stood barefoot, sorting intently through a small coffer; she noted, absurdly, that his toes were of normal length. She wondered why. She couldn't bear to wonder; she sank down onto a sofa, setting the books beside her. “I'd left these,” she said inanely.

  
  


He made a rumbling noise of acknowledgment as he drew forth whatever he sought and set the small box down. As he leaned forward to fasten it beneath the collar of his shirt, she saw that it was a match to his usual adornment: a thick torc, or perhaps an elegant gorget, this one steel studded with onyx, rather than plain bronze. She wondered if this was the male equivalent of the choker, or merely a personal vanity, perhaps even some slight attempt to ward off injury. _Yes. _Details. Small, immutable facts to focus on; with which to rebuild the world.

  
  


He pulled on knee-high boots, also black, and polished to a high sheen, before making his way over to the wardrobe she had chosen a dress from. Peering into the small shelves, he extracted a small box from their depths. Flipping open its lid, he sorted through it with one long claw, stirring its contents as he made his way toward her. He set the box aside and, before she realized what he was doing, had sunk to one knee before her.

  
  


Michelle froze, caught in his gimlet gaze, but there was nothing supernatural about it; she did not dare look away from someone capable of doing what she had seen in the other room. His eyes were nearly lost in their deep pits beneath the soft glow of the gaslamps; his hair gleamed auburn, his complexion an impossible, grave moss white. His expression was distant, almost concerned, and for a moment she knew he was about to ask her of what she'd seen; knew she was going to start screaming and never stop when he did. He leaned forward, and opened his mouth to speak; she closed her eyes and prepared for the inevitable.

  
  


The next thing she knew, his cheek was brushing against hers, his damp hair sliding along her jaw. Her eyes flew open at the shock of it; she was already raising her hands to ward him off when the sharp, stinging pain lanced through her earlobe.

  
  


She cried out in surprise and pain, her hands bracing against his chest. His fingers circled her wrists faster than she could react, gripping so tightly his nails pierced the flesh of her forearm. She struggled against him, more out of instinct than intention, but he pressed her back against the sofa, bearing her down as he sank his fang into her other ear. Just as she was registering what was happening, he jerked her back upright by her wrists, raising his free hand.

  
  


She knew what was happening even as she felt the light, almost gentle tugging on her earlobe, but the glimpse of amethyst and silver in his hand as he reached up to do the second confirmed it. His hand tightened on her wrists fractionally before he slowly loosened his grip. He leaned back, watching her carefully, and his expression softened when he realized that she was not about to fly at him; he raised his head to admire his work.

  
  


Michelle reached up, wordlessly feeling at the thin metal wires that now passed through her earlobes, the cool metal, the faceted stones. She knew without looking that they matched the necklace he had given her, the night he had murdered his mother. Radu smiled.

  
  


“Now,” he said, “we are ready to depart.”


	4. Chapter 4

The ascent was a thing of mindless darkness; her feet knew the way, once her mind was no longer able to distract them with its incessant curiosity. Michelle followed Radu in a daze, punctuated only by the occasional sting of pain as the wires of the earrings moved in their new sheaths. They should have healed, she thought dimly, but couldn't bring herself to care very deeply as to why they hadn't. Perhaps the wires irritated them too much to knit. Perhaps they were silver, and the legends were true, after all. Perhaps it had been him; his bite, his teeth, his bile. _He'd bitten her ears. _

  
  


But that was hardly the worst thing he'd ever done to her, was it?

  
  


She was in no shape to contemplate the evidence which required such judgments. She had experienced too much in these last few hours, and knew that the worst was probably yet to come; if Radu felt inclined to casually maim her in mere preparation for Ash's entertainment, she did not expect to find the actual event any less unpleasant.

  
  


She followed him through the dark, and let things happen as they would.

  
  


Rather than climbing all the way back to the club itself, Radu opened the nondescript door they'd passed on the third level down, beneath the floor they'd first encountered Ash and Cassandra on. Michelle let him usher her through, and was mildly surprised to see that it was even more elegantly appointed than what she'd taken for servants' quarters.

  
  


It appeared to be another of the warehouse rooms, wide and cavernous, but carpet so plush her feet sank into it as she crossed the threshold covered the floor, and the tall, looming walls were papered in a soft cream, the low light from the gas sconces set high atop them picking out the faint gleam of golden stenciling and casting intriguing shadows across the plaster moldings that crowned them. The space they occupied now was long and rectangular, the room being divided along its width by another wall, pierced by intricately carved doors of dark wood... and before those doors waited their hosts.

  
  


Michelle froze for a moment, feeling as if her legs were rooted to the floor beneath her; but when Radu moved toward them, she found herself able to follow easily. What she saw here might be disgusting and depraved, inhuman and soulless, but none of those were strange paths for her. Ash, in his mask of civility and culture, could probably not imagine the torments she'd already been forced to endure; stooping that low would harm his carefully crafted image. There was nothing that could happen here that was worse than what had already befallen her.

  
  


So it was that she was able to approach the small group clustered by the doors with her head held high and her shoulders thrown back; unless they meant to fall on her and tear her apart, their antics meant less than nothing to her. Not that she really worried for her own safety; as they drew near, Cassandra, still clad in her flapper getup, caught Michelle's eye and smiled. Keeping her hand below her waist, she wiggled her fingers in greeting, her eyes quickly darting to Ash to assure herself that he hadn't noticed.

  
  


Ash stepped forward, his hands automatically folding themselves before him. He had changed into much finer gear, the brushed black velvet of his tailcoat gleaming luxuriantly beneath the soft gaslight; Michelle would have sworn that the curls that fell before his unbelievably blue eyes were moussed. “Master, I am so pleased that you could join us,” he intoned richly, turning to glance at Michelle to include her in the welcome. She did not look away, but could not resist letting her eyes unfocus as his gaze met hers; she didn't know what he had been up to, but she was perfectly content to remain free of it. “I trust that you will find our offering tonight worth the journey.”

  
  


Her interest piqued at that, Michelle shot a covert glance at Radu, but the deepening of his frown indicated that he did not appreciate the presumption. “I tarry at your bacchanals as willingly as I ever have,” he said tiredly.

  
  


Ash's features once more assumed that carefully blank, polite expression he had shown at their arrival, but held it for perhaps a moment too long. “Indeed,” he said finally, before turning fully to Michelle. “I am given to understand that you have already sampled some of our hospitality, and hope most ardently that you found it suitable. You must feel free to wander freely throughout my domain, though you may find parts of it less suited to your tastes.”

  
  


Before Michelle could do more than nod in acknowledgment, Radu's arm has slipped around her waist, his fingers spreading to cup her elbow. “She has nothing to fear here,” he rumbled. Raising his head, he regarded the small assemblage before them. “What are these?”

  
  


“My brood,” Ash snapped, displaying the first bit of unfeigned emotion they'd yet seen from him; his demeanor quickly softened as Radu turned to glare down at him. “Cassandra you may remember, if only from this evening,” he said, sweeping a hand to indicate her. Cassandra, her eyes wide and her expression awed, curtsied once more, her eyes never leaving Radu's face. He indicated the taller of the two men that stood behind him. “This is Dmitri, an artist of some small repute.”

  
  


As he stepped forward, bobbing his head, Michelle was taken aback by his physical resemblance to Nicolescu; close enough that she had to blink twice to assure herself that it wasn't truly him. The long, lank hair and lantern jaw were the same, but the smile on Dmitri's face was supercilious, rather than weary; he was taller, as well, and not nearly so skinny. His bow to Radu was deep and respectful, but she didn't like the knowing, conspiratorial look in his eye as he bowed over her hand. “Enchante,” he drawled; Michelle retrieved her fingers as quickly as she could.

  
  


“And this is Anton, a... business partner.” Something about the appellation amused Ash as much as it discomfited Anton; unease was written in every line of his body as he came forward. His carriage was rigid and erect, putting Michelle in mind of a military man; his right hand twitched a moment before he bowed to Radu, and Michelle realized his first instinct had been to shake hands. Michelle inclined her head to him in turn, noting the uncertainty of his movements. She wasn't sure why, but she was almost positive that Anton was a new vampire, too; possibly even newer than she herself.

  
  


Ash smiled genially, as if in expectation of compliments on his choice in fledglings; Radu, naturally, did not oblige. “Where is Serena?”

  
  


The good humor fled Ash's face as quickly as it had arrived. “She is not with us, my lord,” he said gravely.

  
  


“I am aware of that,” Radu replied, the beginnings of a snarl in his voice. “Where _is _she?”

  
  


“I—she has not been among us since you both departed, my lord,” Ash said. “I had thought, in fact...” His gaze drifted meaningfully towards Michelle; he gave the tiniest of shrugs. “There has been no word.”

  
  


“But--” All heads swiveled towards the source of the voice; Cassandra froze, her fingers hooked into claws, looking as if she wished the earth would swallow her whole.

  
  


“We've discussed your problems in this regard, Cassandra.” Ash's voice was utterly calm and collected, and carried no less menace for all of that. “Your timing--”

  
  


“Speak,” Radu commanded.

  
  


Cassandra's hands thawed enough to begin the frantic wringing Michelle had first seen her engage in at the bar. Miserably, her painted gaze flicked back and forth between her master and the visitor that even he yielded to, unable to decide who she dared disappoint. “The... the pilgrim...” She stumbled to a halt, her eyes pleading for forgiveness from anyone who might grant it.

  
  


Ash's hand flicked open in a gesture of irritation. “She's unwell,” he said dismissively. “You're familiar with these folktales...”

  
  


“Of which I am also a part.” Radu's gaze swept the room; Ash froze, watching him carefully. “But it is immaterial, for the moment.” His fingers caressed Michelle's bicep idly. “What is it that you have called us together for?”

  
  


Dmitri and Anton both regarded their master with covert interest as he straightened, his shoulders relaxing. “A mere trifle. I continue to maintain the subscription to the symphony, and chanced to attend last night. The repertoire left a bit to be desired, but there is a pianist visiting from overseas; quite exquisite. I've arranged for her to be with us tonight; I'm certain you shall find her as enchanting as I did.”

  
  


A piano recital seemed harmless enough; but the suspicious look on Cassandra's painted face set Michelle's nerves on edge. She hugged herself tightly, turning half-away to regard Ash over her shoulder, but none of the others seemed to notice the byplay. Michelle shut her eyes briefly, knowing better than to hope that Cassandra was merely expressing a preference for woodwinds; she knew what was coming, and she didn't like it any more than Michelle did.

  
  


Radu arched an eyebrow and seemed on the verge of speech, when a thin trickle of music wended its way through the air; they paused as one, all focused on the delicate, trembling tones. For a moment, Michelle was hard-pressed to believe that it really was a piano that she was hearing; the notes were so pure and crystalline it was hard to believe them the product of human artifice. Ash smiled, gluttony and possessiveness entwined in the expression; laying a hand on one of the brass levers, he opened the one of the doors just wide enough to allow himself entrance and slipped inside. The rest followed as carefully and quietly as their preternatural skills would allow; Michelle only knew someone had closed the door by the faint dimming of light.

  
  


Within was a gorgeous, jewel-box of a theatre done in miniature. Pale hangings adorned the columned walls, their fixtures and fittings all done in gilt; the bulk of the room was given over to rows of plush velvet chairs that provided seating for perhaps thirty. She followed Radu to these, sidling in beside him; the armless chair and the tightness of her jacket forced her to sit brutally upright. But she found she didn't mind, as the limpid notes continued to drift over them; the wondrous skill of the pianist made it easy to lose oneself in the music.

  
  


The far end of the room was a small stage, a little over waist height, lit only by the heavy, wrought-iron candelabra that sprouted dozens of flames at either end of it. The grand piano that dominated it was polished to an ebony sheen, the dull ivory gleam of its keys visible even at this distance as the player's fingers danced across them. Michelle saw that she hadn't been quite right; Ash's vanity gave way before his consideration for the performer, and a small electric light rested atop the music stand to illuminate the score spread open beneath it.

  
  


Not that the pianist needed it. Michelle was not surprised that it was a woman, but was a little surprised that one who looked so young could possess such talent; the woman playing seemed scarcely out of her teens. Brown hair fell past her chin, moving slightly as she swayed in time to her music; a brief glimpse showed Michelle that her eyes were closed. She seemed wholly connected with both the instrument and the glorious sound that they were creating; complete unto themselves, the audience less than irrelevant. She was impressed by that single-minded devotion almost as much as by the playing.

  
  


Radu was utterly still beside her, seeming utterly transfixed by the music; recalling his long ago comments about the village violinist, she supposed that he had had plenty of time to develop an ear. As she watched, he reached up to tuck his hair behind his ears; Michelle wondered if it made an actual difference, but couldn't quite bring herself to imitate him... not that it seemed as if he'd notice. Settling back and making herself as comfortable as she could, she allowed her eyes drift shut and let the music wash over her.

  
  


For the first time, she deeply regretted the fact that her taste had always run towards pop music; her familiarity with classical music was confined to the sort used for hold music and movie soundtracks. She had no idea what the piece they were listening to was called, but she doubted she would ever forget it: fast and galloping high notes that would then retreat into a languorous, hesitant coil in the mid-range; a song of nervous grief and regret, tempered by hesitation and lost opportunity. She clasped her wrists in her lap, half-expecting to find the hairs of her arms standing on end.

  
  


Even as the emotions washed over her, even as the woman coaxed sounds from the keyboard Michelle would not have thought physically possible, she could not help but wonder if the woman were truly possessed of such heavenly skill, or if the attenuated hearing death had gifted her with made what was already there so much easier to appreciate. Probably some combination thereof, she decided, but she suspected it was more to the pianist's credit. Slitting her eyes, she saw that the woman was still utterly transported by her own playing; Michelle didn't think she had ever seen a musician so completely consumed by their music before.

  
  


She couldn't have said how long she sat and listened; the minutes seemed to melt into one another beneath the ebb and flow of the music. The first piece gave way to something slower and more mellow, at times wistful mourning, at others almost a lullaby. This in turn metamorphosed into something rapid and sprightly, that made Michelle think of Russian dancers whirling in the snow. Another handful of songs bled into each other seamlessly, each as well executed and emotive as the last, each as skillfully wrought as the finest of tapestries.

  
  


Thus it was even more jarring when the woman's hands slammed into the keyboard, an ugly gash of discordance; Michelle felt almost as if she had been slapped. Her head jerked up as she scanned the room for the source of the noise; the woman hunched over the keyboard, her hands braced against the woodwork, panting. She wondered for a moment if the woman had begun to faint, but the woman straightened, glancing nervously around as she did so; she seemed to gather her composure and, rolling her shoulders back, smiled sheepishly and shot them all an apologetic glance as she arched her fingers to address the keyboard once more.

  
  


The song resumed as if it were a thread unbroken, but Michelle was still unnerved, and found it hard to let the gentle, cheerful melody steal over her. The woman was visibly pushing herself, straining with the effort to recapture the easy grace with which she had previously played, and perhaps that was why the music was not quite so magical this time; but even as her playing smoothed out and her body relaxed, something still nibbled at the edge of Michelle's consciousness.

  
  


She glanced around the room, trying to determine what might have caused the awkward interruption. The audience still sat, seemingly as enrapt as Michelle had been; even Cassandra, who had seemed so dubious earlier, sat with a faint smile on her lips, leaning forward as if to hear better. Nothing was changed, nothing seemed guilty of having provoked the pianist's fumble...

  
  


...except that Ash was missing from his seat.

  
  


Her eyes darting around the room, Michelle couldn't spot him. He had been sitting front and center, his silhouette a bold chiaroscuro against the flickering candlelight from the stage; now there was no sign of him. Yet he had seemed almost intoxicated by the woman's playing, utterly entranced; surely he wouldn't have done anything to mar her breathtaking performance.

  
  


As if she wasn't perfectly well aware that there was no depth these creatures would refrain from stooping to.

  
  


Even as she surveyed the room once more, she caught sight of Ash leaning against—lurking behind—one of the pillars immediately to the right of the stage; he must have been part of the darkness. His back was to her, but there was no mistaking the predatory set of his frame. Michelle, disbelieving, glanced frantically around the room, but none of the others seemed to have so much as noticed, or cared, if they did.

  
  


The woman's fingers fumbled, halting for half a moment before she resumed.

  
  


Ash hadn't moved, but the tense line of his shoulders... was he messing with her mind, as he'd done to Michelle? If he'd handled her so skillfully, there was no telling what he could do to an utterly unprepared human. All the dark thoughts of earlier in the evening aside, she could hardly believe what was happening; she couldn't truly believe that she was about to watch such an amazingly gifted artist slaughtered before her eyes; couldn't believe that she might be asked to participate in it.

  
  


The sound of the woman's breathing was now audible above the music, harsh and panting.

  
  


“Leave.”

  
  


Michelle choked on a squeal of alarm as the lips brushed against her ear; Radu's fingers spread over her wrists, holding her still. “Leave,” he repeated, voice soft as shadows. “Upstairs, if you wish, but do not depart these grounds.”

  
  


She craned her neck to look at him, horrified at the blank expression on his face. He appreciated the arts; how could he, as callous with human life as he was, condone the destruction of such a skilled practitioner? The words struggled against one another in her throat as she fought to arrange a coherent protest; she couldn't fight them all, but she couldn't stand by and watch this happen; nor was she yet so callous herself that she could accept Radu's abrupt dismissal as an excuse to claim that her hands were clean.

  
  


Radu shook his head briefly, as if in annoyance. “She won't be harmed yet,” he said, a hint of the familiar rasp creeping into his words, “or at all, if she is wise.”

  
  


Her eyes returned to the woman on stage, who still played with an eerie beauty, despite her obvious distress, struggling with whatever unseen force that bedeviled her to keep the pristine clarity of the notes flowing. She glanced back at Radu, his face stern and grim... but his eyes were already drifting back to the stage; whatever it was he meant to shield her from, he was looking forward to enough that Michelle's unhappiness was simply a distraction.

  
  


_I'm sorry, _she thought miserably, wishing there was some way that the woman could hear her, _I'm so, so sorry._ Some tiny part of her railed against herself, screaming that this was no murderer, no wino, no one who deserved what was undoubtedly about to happen; the rest of her knew that there was no hope for either of them.

  
  


Staring down at her fists, her fingers clenched so tightly the nails bit into her flesh, she blinked her burning eyes and swirled away into the encompassing darkness.

  
  


As she whispered through the crevices, she thought she heard the sound of applause.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


 

She fled as quickly as she could, scissoring through the shadows like a breath of frost. She slithered from darkness to darkness without thought, seeking only the path of least resistance; the very air itself seemed to drag against her here, opposed to her desperate need to be free of company.

  
  


It was the noise that finally brought her back to herself; she had unwittingly found her way back to the main level, the club itself. She'd lost her bearings, causing a moment's panic before grim practicality set in: it wasn't as if she had any place to go. Slinking along the wall, she molded herself to its features until it gave way onto one of the shrouded alcoves and slunk in, resolving herself in the privacy afforded by the curtains.

  
  


The clamor of the guests was as overpowering as it had been initially, but still wasn't enough to entirely penetrate the sick grief and self-loathing that gnawed at her. She had been here less than half a night, and was already disgusted anew by what she'd encountered. As intriguing as it had been at first blush, the notion of _civilized _vampire society was a sick joke. Rarefied sensitivities that required only the most august of victims to satisfy... she shuddered, clutching her elbows tightly. She was as furious at herself as she was at them; revolted that she'd been so charmed by blood served in a wineglass that she'd been willing to countenance the destruction of that poor young woman, if only by her absence.

  
  


Rage and horror warred within her thoughts, borne aloft on an earsplitting sea of human interaction. It was simply too much; she had to do something, or she was going to... _do something._

  
  


Her arms still folded against her belly, she shouldered her way out from beneath the thick velvet curtains and made her way hurriedly across the floor. A few interested heads turned in her direction as she swept past, but no one seemed to take any great interest in her; she had been notable earlier only for her company.

  
  


Gritting her teeth against the click and rattle of dice, the tinkle of ice and the grinding of watch springs she kept her eyes firmly forward, yielding from her course only to deftly sidestep the occasional obstruction. There was movement in the air here besides that of the lazily circling fans overhead; there had to be a front door. A breath of fresh air, a little quiet, a little space of relative normalcy... a quick way out into the night at large, and whatever future it might hold for her on her own. There was no particular desire that motivated her; but taken altogether they formed a desperate goad that urged her onward.

  
  


A set of double doors, nearly a perfect match of the set downstairs; she altered her course and made a beeline for them without thinking. This place was a fortress of doors, a twisting warren of hallways and little dark rooms whose occupants may or may not have ever been meant to emerge; if she kept heading up and out, she'd have to get somewhere eventually.

  
  


A pair of uniformed attendants waited at each side; at her approach, one of them reached up and discreetly rapped on the door. A moment later the doors swung outward; she passed through without so much as a glance.

  
  


The room beyond was, as seemed to be inevitable here, not what she was expecting. It might have been the drawing room of any middle class home; the furniture was perhaps a little dated, hinting at the Victorian splendor to be found within, but far from sumptuous, a simple collection of armchairs and a sofa with their attendant accessories. The only thing to set it apart was a narrow spiral staircase that rose in the rear corner of the room, leading up to a hidden upper level. But it was, in fact, the foyer; the plain front door was flanked by panels of glass block and crowned with a simple stained glass motif, through which she could see the darkness without, dotted with swirling white flecks of snow.

  
  


She glanced over her shoulder, a little uncertainly; the doors remained open, manned on this side by a pair of men in somber black suits. The one nearest regarded her inquisitively; when she made no move to respond, he and his partner silently pushed the doors shut again, seemingly content to have her share their plebeian domain for the time being. The doors swung closed with a familiar, sucking thump; the sound of the revelry inside vanished as if a switch had been flicked. Her shoulders nearly sagged with relief.

  
  


Michelle made her way slowly towards the door; finally, at a loss, she sank lightly onto the edge of a settee. A parlor was the most natural thing in the world, she realized; one couldn't exactly advertise what sort of place this really was—not if one wished to attract the sort of clientèle that attended in evening dress, anyway. Did newcomers sit in this very place to be scrutinized by unseen staff, their suitability for attendance determined by Ash or Iris? Probably. This was certainly where members arrived to be greeted by the stone-faced doormen; as late as it was, she was likely to be interrupted sooner or later.

  
  


Leaning back as best she could, she extended her feet in front of her and tried to force her muddled thoughts into some sort of useful order. The icy breeze that stole beneath the front door to curl around her ankles seemed to offer the best option: she could stand up and walk out that door right now, taking her chances as best she could. She could hunt fairly well; she was a great deal more jaded than she had been; she no longer had... other things to worry about. She could do it. She was willing to bet that she could stay ahead of Radu, at least for awhile; longer than she had thus far, anyway.

  
  


And then what?

  
  


Rationally, suicide was the best option; her opinion hadn't changed. The prospect did not particularly frighten or upset her; but it no longer possessed the keening, desperate urgency it once had. Apathy had sunk its hooks into her deeply enough that she was content to keep moving from experience to experience, at least for awhile. She might be motivated enough to find a rooftop to greet the sun from; she might find it easier to simply allow herself to be carried towards another night. She didn't trust herself to make the correct decision.

  
  


What else, then?

  
  


Perhaps it was simply familiarity breeding contempt, but she had nearly grown used to Radu. She didn't think she'd ever come to _know _him, but his normal behavior had become somewhat predictable; she had a fair idea of when she needed to toe the line, and when she could push things in her own direction. It wasn't a good life, but it was a tolerable one; a person could grow used to anything, given time and motivation.

  
  


Yet just as she had finally found the faint comfort of routine, as soon as she had begun to approach a point where she could confront another night without horrified disbelief on her own behalf, she found herself plunged into this nest of vipers and the morass of hidden undercurrents, their unknowable motivations and their wicked customs. It might simply be the paranoia and fear that had come to inform her every action, but the welcome she had received, the willingness of her hosts to leave her to her own devices, made her fear them even more. Perhaps it was merely Radu's good will that protected her, and she would be picked off when she was on her own, as she was now; perhaps they were merely biding their time. She couldn't allow herself to relax; this couldn't be what it seemed.

  
  


Indeed, even Radu was unable to navigate these waters flawlessly; she was willing to bet that had been genuine surprise and displeasure he had displayed at learning of the absence of this Serena person. She hadn't been seen since they'd left together, but Radu had apparently expected to find her here...

  
  


Michelle picked nervously at her sleeve, wondering once more whose clothes she was wearing.

  
  


It was all simply too much; even something as simple as a dress carried some kind of gruesome mystery with it. She knew better than to ask Radu to depart; he seemed to feel convinced she would find some kind of closure here even if she declined to rip Ash's throat out. She flowed to her feet quickly enough to earn a surprised jerk from one of the doormen; she couldn't bring herself to acknowledge him, but made herself stand for a moment, smoothing the fabric of the jacket over her thighs, before she did anything else.

  
  


She sucked in a deep breath, sifting through the mingled odors of dry, elderly fabric, furniture polish, and floor wax, regarding the door beneath her lashes. A thrill raced along her nerves, raising the hair on her forearms, prickling at the edges of her senses, and she spared a moment in self-loathing that the simple act of exiting a building was able to induce such alarm in her. It was simply a door. There was a knob in it. All she had to do was turn it, and the night was hers; she'd probably have at least a few hours' head start while Radu and the others were consumed with savaging the young woman below. All she had to do was leave.

  
  


She exhaled roughly, forcing the dead air through her nostrils, and lifted her chin, steeling herself. She would walk out the door; she would head west as far and as fast as she could before the dawn caught her. Surely she would find an abandoned hayloft or a disused parking garage to secrete herself in for the day; she might be able to simply bury herself, if she found a good spot; she could even mug someone and use the contents of their wallet to check into a hotel, if need be, and remember to stick a chair beneath the door handle this time. There were all sorts of options; she simply had to walk out that door, and put her mind to finding one.

  
  


When the knob began to twist, she thought that she was simply imagining it, a hallucination brought on by wishful thinking; when it continued to turn she nearly fell back a step, her eyes widening in disbelief. Was this some further manifestation of her eerie new ability? Her thoughts raced, her gaze fixed on the doorknob like gimlets. The rational part of her mind chided her for balking at telekinesis, after everything else she'd experienced; part of her simply regarded the knob's movement with superstitious awe and dread.

  
  


The rest of her nearly laughed aloud when the door opened, revealing the bulky, snow-speckled form of the man standing on the doorstep.

  
  


She backed away until the edge of the settee collided with her calves, raising a hand to her mouth to stifle any inappropriate mirth. What a pretty pass she had come to, when something as simple as someone using a door for its intended purpose was easier to write off as some kind of supernatural outburst. She scooted back as far as she could go, keeping her gaze downcast as the man entered, turning her head to the side; she did not wish to be mistaken for a member of the staff or, God forbid, one of the attractions.

  
  


He brought a blast of frigid air and a swirl of snowflakes with him as he crossed the threshold; her skirt fanned against her ankles in the breeze of the shutting door. Yet as the door swung closed behind him, she caught a glimpse that revealed that even the entryway was not as simple as it seemed: she saw the heavy iron gates that barred the way being returned to their guardian stance.

  
  


The new arrival moved past her without seeming to take any notice of her presence. She surreptitiously watched him beneath her lashes, but there was little to be seen but his back: a nondescript figure swathed in a greatcoat to ward off the winter's chill, a muffler wound around his lower face. She supposed this was probably not the sort of place one wished to be recognized entering or exiting.

  
  


Yet though their movements might have escaped the notice of a normal watcher, Michelle's gaze, tuned as it had become to the dance of predator and prey, was immediately drawn by the slight tensing of both of the doormen; there was nothing overtly hostile in their stances, but it was evident they were both poising themselves for that to change rapidly. The man approached them diffidently, reaching up to unwind his scarf as he did so; long brown hair flopped over his collar as he tucked the muffler beneath his lapels.

  
  


He drew up before the doormen wordlessly, regarding each of them in turn. This caused them to exchange a nervous glance, one of them visibly squaring his shoulders. The other merely pursed his lips, as if deep in contemplation, and finally ventured forth with, “I'm sorry, sir. This is a private club.”

  
  


“That's alright, gentlemen.” The response was a smooth, laconic drawl, the clipped consonants and easy vowels so heart-wrenchingly familiar Michelle felt a sudden and brutal stab of homesickness deep within her chest. “I'm a private man.”

  
  


This earned him a dubious look from the one who had spoken; both of them leaned forward on the balls of their feet, ready to spring if need be, but Michelle's legs had already unwittingly carried her into the confrontation. “You're American!” she said excitedly.

  
  


In the quiet moment before he acknowledged her, Michelle could have strangled herself. Who _cared _what he was? A whorehouse patron was no concern of hers; she probably could have slipped out while the doorkeepers were dealing with him, and left no one the wiser. Yet she had simply been so shocked and pleased to hear anything that could pass for a friendly voice that her tongue had run away with her. She lifted a hand, an apology already rising to her lips, but the sight of his face as he turned to regard her killed the words in her throat.

  
  


“I am.” She couldn't believe what she was seeing couldn't believe she hadn't _noticed; _the doormen were braver than she'd ever given them credit for. “Texan, by the grace of God.” And then, absurdly, the thing before her raised a hand to its waist and tipped her a small bow; not the courtly, elegant movement she had received from Ash, but a gruesome parody of Southern charm.

  
  


The creature before her was _ghastly_; it was all she could do not to retrieve it. The coat it was bundled into was a disguise for the utterly inhuman spindliness of its form; its face was no less of a horror. The skin was stretched drumhead tight over fine, patrician bones, fishbelly pale save for spots of hectic color on its cheeks and deep, bruise-like splotches of corruption beneath its skin. Its blue eyes burned with liquid fire; it looked as if it had been dead and rotting for weeks, but the protrusions beneath its dry, cracked lips left no doubt as to its provenance.

  
  


She faced a vampire; one that looked like it was starving to death.

  
  


Yet it betrayed none of the frantic, ravening need that attended her own bouts of hunger; indeed, despite the mad gleam in its eyes, it regarded her with an air of calm courtesy. “I'm sorry,” she said, “I didn't mean to interrupt--”

  
  


“I'm sure you didn't,” the spectre agreed, shooting a meaningful glance at the doormen. They were both keeping a wary eye on this apparition, but the eyes of one who had spoken kept flicking to Michelle. Taking her greeting as some kind of acceptance, they seemed disinclined to interrupt, but neither were they willing to relax. She didn't blame them. “Where will I find the master?”

  
  


The one who had spoken must be the only one of the pair that spoke English, as he practically bristled at the question; the second scowled and folded his arms, taking his lead from his partner's body language. Michelle licked her lips, fumbling for something to say; this was obviously not one of her fellow special guests, but she had no idea what she might have just found herself in the midst of—or what she might be facing. “I don't know,” she said finally, shaking her head. “I've only recently... arrived. But--”

  
  


“Lazar?” The question was so soft that she wasn't certain if she'd heard it correctly, but the vampire was watching her with an eerie intensity. She spared a glance for the doormen, wondering if it had been attempting to give some kind of password, but their expressions had not softened an iota. She clenched her jaw, wondering if she dared take the easy option of simply fleeing back into the club.

  
  


“This is a private establishment!” The strident voice rang out above them, and every head in the room turned to regard Iris as she descended the spiral staircase, anger written in every line of her form; Michelle had never thought she would be so grateful to see her. The woman gave no ground, even when she drew close enough to see just what it was she was attempting to inject; she looked the vampire up and down, her lip curling in a disdainful sneer. “This is no place for the likes of you,” she sneered. “You. Must. Leave. Here.”

  
  


There wasn't a hint of fear in her voice, or even acknowledgment that anything unusual was taking place, but Michelle had a bad moment, certain that the creature was simply going to seize Iris and wrench her head from her neck, in which she wondered whether she could ever be fast enough to get between them—or if she was capable of fending it off at all.

  
  


But its lips raised in a smile, revealing its yellowed fangs, as it gave a short, almost disbelieving laugh. “My mistake,” it said mildly. The doormen stepped forward, the nearest one shouldering roughly past Michelle, but it raised its hands in a placatory gesture, stepping back. It continued to back away, its eyes never leaving the staff, until it paused before the door. Michelle could not tell what lurked in the look it gave her, but the ferocity of it was enough to send a shiver down her spine. Loosening its scarf to wrap once more around its lower face, it turned and left without further incident.

 

Michelle watched it go with a thin thread of relief, hardly able to believe the confrontation had been resolved so easily; she could not imagine what kind of monster would be unwelcome in a company such as this, and was deeply grateful she had not had to find out. She thought Iris's sigh was also of relief, but when she turned to regard the woman, saw that it was of genuine annoyance; her arms were folded, a foot tapping, as she glared at the door with a sour expression.

  
  


Finally, she shook herself, her mask of obsequious courtesy almost visibly sliding back into place. She turned to give Michelle a wide, practiced smile, just the right touch of embarrassment haunting its corners. “I regret that you were forced to witness that,” she said, “but, as you've seen, we do get _all _types here.”

  
  


Michelle couldn't resist smiling at the joke. “I'm just glad you arrived to break that up,” she said sincerely. “I wasn't certain...”

  
  


Iris waved a dismissive hand. “It happens in the best places. But you mustn't concern yourself with such things in the future; we're well equipped to deal with anything that arises.” She turned and nodded to the doormen, who instantly resumed their poses of still attention. “Would you care to accompany me upstairs for some refreshment?” Some of the shock Michelle felt at the abruptness of the question must have shown on her face; Iris's smile twisted into a smirk. “Only a bit of quiet. That, I'm afraid, is a service I don't typically provide... though I can of course arrange something...?” She raised her chin, meeting Michelle's gaze firmly; she had the idea that something more than simple hospitality was being offered here, but she wasn't sure what.

  
  


“No, no, that's fine,” Michelle said hastily, realizing her silence had gone on too long. “I just—please. That would be nice.” As grateful as she was, she didn't entirely trust the woman; but she could use some bit of respite, even if it involved a conversational minefield.

  
  


Iris's smile deepened, becoming something almost real. “If you'll come this way?” she asked, turning back to the staircase.

  
  


Michelle followed, carefully picking her way up the steps; though the wrought iron rails were beautiful, their curves were tight, and their dimensions so narrow she could barely fit between them. Iris climbed them with practiced aplomb, without the faintest wobble on her painfully high heels. The stairs gave out onto a small, nondescript landing, paneled in the same dark wood from downstairs; Iris opened a nearly invisible door and passed through.

  
  


The light shining through the doorway should have warned her, but Michelle found herself nearly blinded as she stepped through; a hand flew to cover her eyes involuntarily as the bright halogen lamps assaulted her eyes. “My apologies!” Iris said without a hint of sincerity in her voice; a moment later, the light dimmed to a tolerable level. “Forgive me. This is my own little domain; I forget sometimes that others might not find it as pleasing as I do.”

  
  


“No, that's quite alright,” Michelle assured her, unable to resist knuckling at her sore eyes. “It's very lovely.” And found, as her vision cleared, that she had inadvertently spoken the truth. The carpet was so white that she nearly feared to tread upon it; the walls were painted to match, their starkness broken only by shelves of the deepest matte black. The rest of the furniture was streamlined and sleek, metal and glass; though some of its splendor came by contrast with the rest of the building that she'd seen, Michelle felt as if she'd stepped into a music video.

  
  


“Thank you,” Iris responded. “I do try to keep up. It's so nice to have a room of one's own. Please, sit.” She crossed to the glass-topped desk and seated herself behind it, gesturing to the steel and leather chairs arranged before it, before turning to busy herself at the small wet bar at her side. Michelle lowered herself onto one, uncertain as to what might be coming, but pleased enough simply to be able to relax; there was nowhere in the room a threat could be hidden. The sound-proofing here was not quite as good as it was in the lower levels, but she doubted Iris was capable of realizing it; though they must be directly above the main room of the club, Michelle could detect only the faintest of sounds from below. She settled further into the chair, balancing her elbows upon its narrow armrests, and waited to see what Iris had in store for her. There were at least a dozen questions she was eager to ask, but she didn't think she could trust the answers, if Iris were even inclined to give them. Still... “Does that... kind of thing happen often?”

  
  


Iris had raised the glass to her lips; her eyebrows jumped at the question. “Mmm.” She finished her sip, pressing her lips together, and set the glass carefully on a black marble coaster. “One sees all sorts of things in this business.” She leaned back in her chair. “I was rather surprised to see you upstairs at all, honestly. Was the entertainment not to your taste?”

  
  


Michelle winced at the remark, shock and shame stealing the speech from her, but Iris's hands were already raised in apology, a strange echo of the vampire downstairs. “I apologize. _Truly _I do; I'm afraid I've gotten out of the habit of minding my mouth. I genuinely meant no offense.” She folded her hands on the desk, meeting Michelle's gaze firmly. “Let me be frank, Ms. Morgan.” The statement carried a slight questioning lilt at the end; Michelle's eyes widened at the sound of her surname gave all the confirmation Iris required. “I've been hoping to speak to you privately since I was apprised of just how august a guest we were entertaining. I've come into possession of some information that you might... be best able to determine the value of.”

  
  


She opened a drawer in her desk, withdrawing a slim manila envelope, which she placed on the desk between them. Numbly, Michelle watched her unfasten it, withdrawing a few sheets of paper; something within it rattled against the glass of the desk. “Let me begin by assuring you that we had no knowledge of the... goings-on at the St. Stanislaus Church. The... Vitalis Institute,” Iris said more firmly, nodding to herself as she skimmed the top sheet of paper before sliding it across the desk to Michelle. “Ash is a _firm _believer in fledglings leaving the nest; we had no idea that Ionus had returned to Romania, never mind Bucharest itself. I've never actually met him, myself. But, given the events that took place there, and the attention that they garnered, we felt it behooved us to look into things. Evidently the arson is a bit of a, ah, hallmark?”

  
  


The paper was a collection of news articles, all carefully clipped and photocopied together. The quality of the duplication was so poor that they were barely legible, but it made no difference, as Michelle's Romanian was scarcely up to the task. But the small, dot matrix photos were familiar enough to cause her teeth to clench; she had scarcely seen it, but she would never forget that grim facade.

  
  


Realizing she was not going to get the confirmation she craved, Iris continued on smoothly. “Community safety being everyone's business, we make it a point to look into the more unusual happenings we become aware of. The police here can be _so _tedious, but my contacts were able to allow me a look around before things got hopelessly muddled.” She withdrew a set of stapled papers from the envelope, sliding them over for Michelle's perusal; equally inscrutable, it was easy enough to guess that the official looking forms comprised a police report. “Needless to say, there were a few things discovered that didn't concern the public interest, and as you can see, it's been arranged so that public resources will not be wasted on them.

  
  


“Of course, I'm sure you have more important concerns than such simple housekeeping, but there was one item I wanted to be sure to set your mind at ease about.” Reaching into the envelope once more, she extracted another set of papers, this one with a small plastic bag stapled to it. She opened the bag and fished out its contents, depositing the small item on the desk.

  
  


Michelle picked it up, her fingers shaking. She was unable to identify what exactly Iris had just given her; for a moment she thought it might be a spent bullet, but it was far too small and thin. Its wafer-like dimensions were uneven, as if they had been warped or twisted somehow; though it gleamed faintly golden, it was largely covered in a black substance that came away on her fingertips. Rubbing her forefinger and thumb together, she could make no more sense of it. The gritty texture made her think of gunpowder, though she wasn't sure why; it wasn't as if she would recognize it if she encountered it, anyway.

  
  


Though her eyes were usually equal to any task, she had trouble discerning what exactly the ridges and whorls of the little metal shape signified. Raising it higher to peer at, she rubbed her thumb across it once more. A coin? There was definitely something imprinted on it. “Saint... Jude?”

  
  


“The patron saint of police officers.” Iris's smile was wide and thin, but there was nothing friendly in it. “And lost causes.” She laid down the papers that had been attached to it, satisfaction in every movement. “The coroner's report indicated that nothing unusual was discovered, but... well.” Unable to stand that smile any longer, Michelle snatched up the documents, knowing she was going to regret it even as she did. Her fangs shredded the inside of her lip as she bit back a whimper at the sight of the name at the top.

  
  


MEL THOMPSON.

  
  


“The American embassy has not been as forthcoming as one might hope, but as far as I've been able to determine, this was simply a tragic accident, as far as they're concerned. Evidently he had requested some vacation time, and had been out of contact for a week or two previously.” Iris straightened in her chair, steepling her fingers before her. “I'm certain Ash will bring all of this to the prince's attention, but... sometimes things can get lost in the shuffle; I thought you might be pleased to see hard proof for yourself. People who misunderstand certain lifestyle choices can be even more tedious than the police.”

  
  


Her hand clenched around the little saint's medallion so hard that she could feel its twisted edges tearing the flesh of her palm, rather than wrapping around Iris's neck, but the pain of those tiny wounds was nothing compared to the stark realization of loss. She had known, realistically, that he must be dead; had half-hoped that he was, on some level, simply so that she would never have to explain what had happened with Becky. She had never tormented herself by entertaining fantasies that he might be marshaling resources to rescue her, even now... but to see that brave, tireless man reduced to nothing more than a than a disc of melted brass and a few typewritten lines on a paper... to learn of yet another life sacrificed on her behalf from this smug, gloating woman who was as proud as a dog presenting its master with a bit of roadkill... oh, she _burned _with the sickness of it.

  
  


She stared at Iris, not caring what the woman might see in her face, but that plastic smile never slipped. To think that she had been _grateful_... for the assistance downstairs, for a familiar voice, a kind word, for the mere chance to speak to a living, healthy human in peace... but there was nothing healthy about Iris. She had wondered, at that first meeting, what kind of woman would willingly consort with monsters, and now she knew: one so twisted and malign that she could report the death of her fellow man in the same way she might talk of calling an exterminator; one who would willingly sell her own kind for the benefits it might bring her; one who had not only chosen this path, but _reveled _in it.

  
  


Just that quickly, aching, ravenous hunger tore through her, as fierce and overwhelming as if she'd starved for days. She could be over the desk and pinning Iris against the wall in what would seem to her a mere eyeblink. It would be so good to rend her throat, to hear the choking, gurgling sounds that would be the only protests she could muster against the unfairness of it all. Michelle's vision hazed, her hands clenching ever more tightly; she could practically _feel _Iris's perfumed, powdered skin parting beneath her nails--

  
  


\--_no. _No, no, _no._ She pressed her balled fists together, burying them in her lap. That was the difference; it _had _to be, for the sake of her own sanity. Iris may have chosen this life, but Michelle hadn't; she would not revel in it with this woman's death, as much as every fiber of her being might cry out for her to do so. She wouldn't stoop to that level.

  
  


Not yet. Not while she was angry.

  
  


Iris was still watching her with that fixed smile, but there was a blankness to her eyes now; she might be unable to conceive of what exactly it had been, but she knew she had done something wrong. Michelle stared at her a moment, letting her eyes unfocus for fear of what she might command Iris to do if she let her rage get the best of her: tell the police what you've been doing, tell them what's going on here, take a good long look at yourself and _think _about what you've become. The thoughts of vengeance whirled through her mind—so many different ways to destroy her without shedding a drop of her blood—but all she said, in the end, was “I see,” grated between clenched teeth.

  
  


Iris relaxed fractionally, letting her hands rest flat upon the desk with slow, deliberate movements, but she was still visibly on her guard. “I assure you that we had no intention of interfering in whatever business you might have been conducting there; our interest was simply precautionary--”

  
  


“No,” Michelle said slowly, “no, I understand.” She flexed her hand slightly, feeling the way the uneven edges of the medallion dug into her palm; just enough pain to keep her focused; enough to make a memory. “This is... good to be aware of.”

  
  


“I'd hoped you would think so.” Iris smoothed her hands against the glass, her nails clicking brittlely. “No presumption was meant, of course, but--”

  
  


“_Of course not.” _The whining, defensive tone was almost enough to snap Michelle's control; she shut her eyes, worrying the medallion against her torn skin until she felt capable of speaking. “Was this all there was?”

  
  


“The... the remains? I believe they--”

  
  


“The paperwork.”

  
  


“Ah. This is all I felt it necessary to look into, but if there is anything in particular you have an interest in, I'd be happy to follow it up for you.”

  
  


“No,” Michelle said, rising to her feet. “No, that was quite enough.”

  
  


“I'm happy to have been of service, Ms. Morgan,” Iris assured her, warm, slinking obsequiousness creeping back into her voice. “If there is anything we here at Club Muse can assist you with—if there is ever anything that _I _can assist you with—I hope you'll bring the matter to my _personal _attention.”

  
  


“Oh, I will,” Michelle replied, a dozen other responses, each nastier than the next, razoring through her thoughts. She squeezed her fist once more, making sure she had a good grip on the tiny St. Jude; the she bled away into the scant shadows Iris permitted in her office, hoping she served as a reminder as to why the woman feared the dark.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


 

She had flown from the upstairs room with no thought to her destination, but the eerie, penetrating feel of the drafts from the front door gave her pause; she swirled around the parlor, weighing her options. It seemed as if little time had passed, but the night had been a series of shocks, and the darkness had slipped through her fingers; she could sense the oncoming dawn, an hour or two into the future, prickling against the edges of her being.

  
  


That didn't mean she was trapped—she had yet to learn just how fast she could be, when she truly needed to, but even her casual movements were at a speed no human could dream of—but it did limit her options enough to make her nervous. She could certainly make it out of the city in the hours of darkness remaining to her, but the suburbs? What if she found herself stranded in the countryside; was it worth the risk?

  
  


Was exposing herself to daylight even something to fear?

  
  


But the decision was already made, and in her heart of hearts she knew it. She was too tired, too weary of unpleasant revelations and the constant dread of the unknown to truly contemplate making a run for it; the prospect was terrifying enough without the added hardship of dawn to race.

  
  


Even when the alternative was bedding down beside Radu's collection of corpses.

  
  


That still left her with some time to pass amongst this company, but surely they could not find anything truly horrific to occupy such a scant amount of time. If she were truly lucky, they all might remain occupied until daylight caught them; the thought brought equal measures of shame and eagerness. It didn't really matter, as she spent the days insensible, but the idea of being permitted to pass the day on her own was an attractive one.

  
  


But where? She made one more pass around the small room, thinking. The basement lair, she supposed, in case Radu did turn up and did not appreciate her attempting to stray, but she had no wish to spend any longer there than she had to. Club Muse itself held no attraction for her—the mere idea of returning to that crush of sound was hard to stomach—but she doubted its denizens would appreciate her wandering in their private demesne, the only other area in the building she had seen. The club offices were evidently upstairs, if Iris's rooms had been anything to go by, but there had been warehouses; a stroll among the warehouses seemed her only other option. So be it; rats and cockroaches would provide more genial company than she had lately been keeping.

  
  


She whirled across the room and slithered against the door, seeking a crack through which she might pass, and to her dismay found none. She pressed herself against the door, searching; she had yet to encounter a barrier that was utterly impenetrable by shadow, but it seemed this was to be the first. The solid clunk of the doors below echoed in her mind; soundproof, airtight, and evidently proof against unwanted visitors.

  
  


She hovered, dismayed. She supposed, in this place, that she could simply materialize and expect the doormen to grant her access, but part of her recoiled at the idea; such a flagrant acknowledgment of her own inhumanity was not something she felt up to facing. Yet she couldn't exactly lurk out here all night. Perhaps if she went back upstairs, gathered herself in the hallway, and descended in the more usual fashion... but the idea that Iris might catch her at it galled her. But it wasn't as if--

  
  


The sound of the door's release was enough to send her knifing along the wall, senses attuned; she didn't _think _the doormen had been aware of her presence—she did her best to move only amongst natural shadows, which she was fairly certain obscured her—but the timing was enough to alarm her. Yet for once, it was only a happy accident; an older man, clad in evening dress that had seen hard use, emerged from within, reeling a bit with drink. Michelle did not stay to eavesdrop on whatever it was he said to the doormen; she was through the gap and into the main room before the hinges had finished whining.

  
  


The noise was less overwhelming than it had been. She supposed that, given enough time, she would get used to it—none of the others she had met seemed particularly bothered by it—but it was still far from a pleasant experience. She hugged the wall, moving as rapidly as she dared, unconcerned with who might catch her shape out of the corner of her eye. The doors to the main stairway were at the far corner of the room; if she could find those, she was fairly confident she could make her way to some disused place to while away an hour or two. She added a burst of speed as she passed the alcoves; a bit of quiet, a bit of privacy, a bit of surcease--

  
  


“Come along, pretty one.”

  
  


She would have screamed, if she could; the shock and pain were totally overwhelmed by the sheer _alienness _of the sensation. She had been sliding along the wall as a shadow among shadows; now she was pinned, held, captured as surely as if she had been shackled to a boulder. She whirled, flowing as best she could within the unbelievable restraint. Frantically, she turned back on herself, seeking the source of her arrest.

  
  


A long, thin finger had emerged from behind the drapery of the last alcove; the long, curved talon at the end of it pierced her, holding her fast.

  
  


And then she began to _slip._

  
  


Radu had her, and was _pulling _her; he had somehow managed to seized a handful of shadow, a handful of _her_, and was drawing her into the alcove with him. She fluttered, spreading insubstantial hands in a search for purchase they could not find; helplessly, impossibly, she slid backwards.

  
  


He let her go as soon as she was behind the curtains; she was so disoriented that it took her a moment's hard concentration before she could coalesce once more.

  
  


Seated at a small table, leaning forward on one elbow, Radu simply watched her, a faint smile curving his lips. She raised a hand to her chest, and sucked in a deep breath, simply to prove to herself that she could. She'd never imagined—but she didn't need to, did she? She'd done it to him, once, pinning him to a stone slab with an enchanted dagger... but she'd had _no _idea it was normally possible. Was it something special, that only he could do, or was this a case of ignorance being bliss? The idea of a battle like that sent a shiver of primeval dread up her spine; shadows tearing at one another, rending each other into deeper darkness.

  
  


“Where have you been?”

  
  


The question was abrupt enough to startle her out of her reverie; her nerves were wound so tightly that she snapped. “Why do you care? You sent me away.”

  
  


“Would you rather have stayed?” He raised an eyebrow. “I am not always inclined to tolerate your tantrums, pretty one. There is a time and a place.” He gestured for her to take the chair opposite him, fingers spreading in a wide, bony fan.

  
  


Michelle sidled along the edge of the drapery and did so carefully, her carriage erect as she lowered herself to sit. She kept her hands balled in her lap, unwilling as yet to reveal the secret buried in her flesh; she had already borne enough good humor at the death of a friend tonight. “Exploring, mostly,” she said. “I spoke to the manager for awhile.”

  
  


“My châtelaine's châtelaine.” He shook his head, as if the idea amused him. “I trust you found it a worthy use of your time.”

  
  


_If you only knew. _He might; but now, removed from the situation, Michelle found herself wondering at Iris's behavior, and the way she'd been so pointed about what _she'd _done, _her _contacts, and her _personal _attention. It might simply have been fawning, but she had already learned better than to take anything here at face value. Was this some test of his, to see if she'd reveal what she'd been told? “No,” she said shortly.

  
  


The eyebrow raised even further, and for a moment she thought he would speak, probably some mockery, but he turned his head to watch through the small space the parting of the drapes allowed them. Michelle followed his gaze, able to discern little from the brief glimpses of finely dressed patrons as they crossed the floor, but the sensation of being so close and yet unseen was a little unnerving. Private booths were hardly an original idea, but she doubted such as they had often lurked in the privacy they afforded—though, she realized, she had no reason to. How often had she passed something the rational mind knew could not exist on the street and never known it, because sanity dictated that it could not be known? Radu had shown her that it was more likely than she had ever dreamed possible.

  
  


She looked away, allowing her eyes to trace the arching designs worked in the wallpaper, gleaming faintly in the dim light. The thirst that her anger at Iris had awakened still gnawed at her, thickening her tongue and filling her mouth with sawdust, but she was confident that she could bear it for the remainder of the night. Tomorrow would be another matter... but tomorrow could take care of itself. “What happened to the woman who played?” she asked. “What did you do to her?”

  
  


“I?” Unmoving, he regarded her from the corners of his eyes, that supercilious smile still playing around his lips. “I simply appreciated her artistry. She is exquisite,” he added, as if mildly surprised at the admission.

  
  


Michelle kept her expression blank, unwilling to contemplate what kind of desecration would make him coy; the woman's distress had been too evident for the recital to have been the main part of the festivities. “She's safe now?”

  
  


He leaned forward, his gaze dark and earnest, stretching out a hand to brush her bicep; she could feel the tickle of his claws even through the layers of fabric that separated her from them. “As safe as you are,” he nearly purred.

  
  


She blinked in astonishment, unable to reconcile the statement; by the time the true enormity of it sunk in he had already reached down to grasp her wrists; she managed to fumble the hand holding the medallion free. He raised her left hand to his lips, delicately brushing her knuckles, his eyes drooping shut. “Ah, what rough court I've paid you,” he sighed, raising her hand to rub against his cheek; but when he opened his eyes, he was smiling again. “Yet I think you are just as displeased by the more _civilized _manners employed here.”

  
  


“Oh, I don't know,” she said, amazed at the steadiness in her own voice. She'd left that poor woman in the company of monsters, and they had chosen to induct her into their ranks. _What else could she have done?_ “I might prefer being murdered in a place like this to being chased down an alley.”

  
  


Radu laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Had I only known.” He kissed her fingers lightly; she went utterly still to prevent herself from jerking away. He squeezed her hand, and when he looked up at her this time, there was something much more honest in his expression; something almost vulnerable. “Do you truly find much to admire here?”

  
  


As loathe as she was to give it, the answer was easy enough. “No,” she said, “not at all.” She turned to look out at the room, struggling to put her thoughts in order, to find a way to explain what she felt to him. “It's almost worse, this way. No violence, but... we're not meant to pass. Not like this.” She looked away, eyes burning even as hunger gnawed at her gullet. “We don't belong,” she whispered, only realizing how true as it was as she said it. She'd planned on going home, doing the best she could to pick up the shattered remnants of her life... and perhaps she could have done it, with Becky at her side to cheer her on. But that dream was dead, its fantasies laid to rest nestled amongst her sister's bones. She knew not what she meant to do, but it couldn't be that; trying to pretend any further would simply cause her needless anguish, when she already had so much of her own.

  
  


She was so lost in the sudden welter of emotions that she scarcely felt the touch at first. Radu had cupped her hand in both of his, his fingers crossing over her wrist; he caressed her lightly with his thumbs. But the look on his face was almost too much to bear: so pitying, and so confused. She looked away, squeezing her eyes shut. These moments, when he seemed almost compassionate, were in some ways the worst part of dealing with him; brief, tantalizing interludes that in the end served only to show how stark were the gulfs that could not be crossed, the barriers that would never be breeched.

  
  


“As it happens, I agree.” His voice was soft, but the ever-present rumble lent his words a strange tension. “But I thought, even if you wished no quarrel with Ash, perhaps...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “This place was not one of my more auspicious undertakings,” he said wryly.

  
  


Michelle looked up, surprised by the sudden change of tone, and the new revelation it carried. “Was this another of your wife's ideas?” she asked daringly. She didn't care if the boldness angered him; she'd do anything to get that look off of his face.

  
  


He snorted. “That one would have had the flesh from my bones for consorting with such as these,” he said, “but she was long gone, by then.” He shifted in his seat, lowering their hands to the table. “Victoria ruled the Britons, and sent them out into the world with all sorts of mad, glorious ideas, the like of which had never been seen before, and were all the more eagerly embraced for it... it seemed a likely time to step back into society, if only in its shadows, and this the best way to do it. Ash thrived on it; but I wearied quickly, as I wearied of him, and so it seemed best to leave its governance in his hands. I have little taste for such undertakings.”

  
  


As it seemed would always be the case when he chose to reveal more of his past, Michelle found herself at an utter loss for words. She could certainly credit him with an idea as fiendishly decadent as Club Muse, but the idea that he had actually caused it to happen, even with Ash's assistance, in such a superstitious time... but she had evidence enough of his indomitable, implacable will. She wished keenly for the dawn to hasten on its way and spare her from more of this conversation, but knew she wouldn't be so fortunate. “Then why did you bring me here?” she asked tiredly.

  
  


For a moment, she thought he would actually answer; he opened his mouth as if to speak, before raising her hand once more to his lips. “There are compensations,” he said, his voice once more full of amusement and disdain; he rose to his feet quickly enough that she had trouble following the movement. “Come.”

  
  


Michelle watched him warily, cautious of the abrupt change in his demeanor, as she rose to her feet. “Radu, I--”

  
  


He jerked her to him, wrapping his arms around her as he turned them both to face the gap in the curtains; she leaned against him to catch her balance, pressing her arms against her midsection as he began to knead her shoulders. “I can feel the hunger licking along your nerves like embers,” he murmured into her ear, lips brushing her flesh. “There is no call to stint yourself in this place.” She tensed as she felt the roughness of his tongue against the new wound of the earring. “Never here,” he whispered, nuzzling her hair.

  
  


“Radu, I—I'm fine, really--” But as practiced as she had become with that lie, the words were hard to force past the dryness of her throat. She had been mastering it by refusing to think of it but, once acknowledged, her hunger roiled within her. She ached for some kind of relief, but doubted Radu had anything so prosaic as summoning a waiter in mind.

  
  


“You may lie to yourself, if you wish, pretty one, but I will always know better.” One hand reached up to gather her hair into his grasp, pulling it away from her throat. “You wish so desperately to abjure the hunt; is the idea of a willing companion so very unbelievable?”

  
  


He was too close; his body to hers, his teeth to her neck. “_Yes,_” she grated, startled to hear a sound so close to a growl emerge from her own throat. “Whatever goes on here—whatever they do to these people--”

  
  


“Is entirely of their own doing in coming here.” He kissed the curve of her jaw, his hands flexing against her shoulders.

  
  


“_Don't_,” she gasped, but couldn't summon the strength to push him away. “Don't—pretend like—you couldn't let them walk away, not once they knew--”

  
  


“Have I not already been tender of your gentle feelings once this evening?” he asked teasingly. “A little faith, if you would.” Whatever response she might have made died as his lips fastened on the soft skin of her throat; her hands clenched spasmodically, driving the medallion even further into her flesh as she felt the scratchy rasp of his tongue lapping her. He shuddered, clutching her tightly; then released her abruptly, his hands trailing down her arms as he stepped away. “I can promise you that, if nothing else, you shall be displeased in an entirely unprecedented fashion,” he said, the laughter in his voice barely restrained.

  
  


He stepped past her, taking up a position beside the doorway, and drew the curtain back a fraction. Even in the midst of her unhappiness at this turn of events, she was further dismayed to see that she was not simply acclimating to the noise level of the club, as she had first thought; it had simply grown emptier. Perhaps a third of the people who had crowded the main room during their first passage of it remained, and perhaps half of those were the finely dressed men that had initially dominated the company. Brightly clad women moved amongst them now, colorful spots amongst the crowd of black; Michelle felt a sick queasiness when she realized that many of their dresses matched the décor. Of course they hadn't been present earlier, she thought miserably; they had probably been... busy.

  
  


The dynamic seemed to please Radu, however, for he drew the curtain back even further, stepping fully into the archway; the shadows were probably enough to obscure his more obviously inhuman features, but there would be no missing that there was someone standing there. Michelle shrank back further into the small confines of the alcove, dreading whatever was about to take place, but was unable to resist peering over his shoulder to see what would transpire. Sliding her hands behind her back, she unfolded the right one painfully, wincing at the feel of her skin pulling away from the medallion. She worked it free of her flesh as quickly as she could bear to, pressing it between her thumb and forefinger as she thought desperately about what do to with it. Lacking pockets, she surreptitiously tucked it into the lining of the coat, hoping it could weather whatever was about to transpire there.

  
  


A few moments later, one of the women trailing across the room in a seemingly idle fashion altered her trajectory, heading in their direction. Michelle tensed as she drew closer, half-expecting the woman to scream, or to turn tail and run once she realized what was awaiting her; and, indeed, the woman paused for a moment in her languid glide, her face utterly unreadable as she quickly assessed Radu. But, almost unbelievably, her blank mask broke into a smile; she approached with a practiced swagger, her head high and her expression challenging.

  
  


“Good evening,” she trilled, in a raft of strange consonants that spoke of rote memorization, rather than fluency. Michelle's ears were not deceived; Radu spoke a few words of a harsh, clipped language, to which the woman responded animatedly. He drew back, inviting her into the alcove; the woman ducked beneath the drapery to join them, her blonde hair sliding around her shoulders. Her eyes widened fractionally when she caught sight of Michelle, but her smile widened as well; she licked her lips, her gaze never leaving Michelle's. “Mmm. Pretty.”

  
  


Michelle backed away until her back collided with the wall. The woman laughed, not unkindly, and said something that she couldn't understand. Radu responded briefly, but his eyes were only for Michelle; he grinned, predatory and amused, exposing his heavy, yellowed fangs, as he lowered his face to the woman's throat.

  
  


Michelle tensed in anticipation of the savage bite, but Radu only kissed her; raising his head, he murmured something into her ear. A slow, languorous smile spread across her face; she raised her arms, reaching back to touch his hair, and leaned into him as his arms encircled her waist. With surprising gentleness, he pulled her backwards; he lowered himself into a chair, settling the woman in his lap.

  
  


His hands traced the contours of her body, pressing into her flesh as he buried his face in her hair; the woman sighed happily, wriggling against him. She was clad in a tight, dull gold sheath that fell to her ankles, but was slit nearly up to her hip. Michelle did not quite register what she was seeing when Radu's hand disappeared beneath it, but a moment later the woman tensed, clenching her thighs with a small moan.

  
  


She pressed herself against the wall, wishing that she could sink through it; horrified and disgusted, she was nevertheless unable to look away. The woman's reactions only intensified; she writhed, she whimpered, she clutched at Radu's arm. His face was hidden in her fall of blonde hair, but his hand worked busily. Michelle could scarcely believe what she was seeing; this mechanical parody of love, taking place within arm's reach, was so far outside of the realm of comprehension that she simply stared, aghast and fascinated. All of this, simply to prove a point; she couldn't imagine what he might mean by this, couldn't imagine what was keeping her feet rooted to the floor as the strange coupling continued.

  
  


It was impossibly to tell how long it went on; presently the woman arched, only Radu's arm around her waist keeping her from falling to the floor, a strangled cry tearing from her lips. She sagged back against him, panting; beads of perspiration were visible on her face as she let her head loll back against his shoulder.

  
  


Radu rested his forehead against hers for a moment, then slowly loosened his arm from around her waist. Sliding his palm up her body, he let his fingers caress her throat until, with a sudden movement, he pierced her neck with two of his claws; she jerked, but made no other protest. Blood welled from the wounds, crimson and thick; he traced them delicately, letting it coat his nails, before he raised his head to regard Michelle with a burning gaze. Reaching out, he offered her his hand with a lazy flourish. “Taste.”

  
  


Michelle opened her mouth to gasp a horrified denial, but the intake of air brought her the luscious, riveting smell of blood; as the scent permeated her nostrils, she could almost feel its heat suffusing her. There was no question of will overriding desire; before she realized what she was doing, she had lunged forward and taken Radu's fingertips into her mouth.

  
  


Her world exploded.

  
  


She dimly felt the hard impact of her knees striking the floor, but it was utterly subsumed in the ravening, aching need for more. She seized Radu's wrist, licking and sucking at his fingers, heedless of his nails scoring her tongue. This was unlike anything she had ever tasted, unlike anything she had ever imagined could exist; bliss and blood and joy and satiation and a heady, giddy rush, so different, so _much--_

  
  


She rocked back on her heels as Radu jerked his hand free of her grasp; her scrabble to keep contact sent her stumbling to her hands and knees. She looked up at them, her hair falling forward to obscure her vision, and was transfixed by the sated, smug look on the woman's face. _Endorphins,_ she thought wildly, _only endorphins, but there's so much--_

  
  


With a slow, boneless movement, the woman offered her wrist.

  
  


Michelle fell on her like an animal, regretting her lack of control even as her fangs savagely sheared through the woman's flesh. She knew she was being too rough, knew she was hurting her, but she couldn't make herself _care;_ it was too good, too sweet, too precious, better than any drug could ever be. The woman jerked, with a small gasp, but did not try to withdraw her hand; her weight shifted as Radu pulled her closer. Michelle was only dimly aware of it; she drank thirstily, greedily, heedlessly, lost on the scarlet wave of ecstasy that pulsed into her mouth.

  
  


She could not have said how much time passed before the hunger eased and slackened, though she knew it would never truly be slaked. She had to stop; she had to let go; she had to leave this woman be; but it was so delightful, so rapturous, that it was nearly impossible to do so, even when the flow began to stem. She never knew what deep reserve of willpower enabled her to withdraw, but she did so, slowly and regretfully. Sitting back on her heels, she could not raise her eyes from the rug; she knew the mere sight of the wound would send her into a frenzy that would end the woman's life. She braced her hands against her knees, forcing herself to stay down, without the slightest twinge of pain from her torn palm; it had knit without her noticing as she gorged herself.

  
  


Eventually, the woman stirred, crossing and uncrossing her ankles; a moment later she climbed unsteadily to her feet, tottering a few steps away. Only then did Michelle feel it safe to look up. The woman had withdrawn a handkerchief from somewhere; she dabbed at the wound on her throat, then pressed it against the wrist Michelle had torn. She looked at Michelle critically, weight resting on one hip. “Pretty,” she said irritably, and Michelle was forced to look away again. Radu said something to her, his voice rough and uneven, that earned only a “Hmm” in reply. With a swish of curtains, she was gone.

  
  


They remained silent for a time. Michelle let her weight rest on her arms, stunned and awed; the rational part of her cringed in disgust at what had taken place, but the rest of her was so suffused with the intensity of the experience that she felt raw with it. Compensations, he had said. A fine trembling ran across her form; she could almost believe it was worth it.

  
  


She heard a slight rustle, and glanced up; Radu was sliding from the chair, sinking down to kneel before her. He grasped her shoulders, and she shivered at the touch, her nerves so sensitive that simple contact was almost overwhelming. He watched her cautiously for a moment, the faint smile on his face gradually deepening into genuine pleasure at whatever he saw. “Hardly,” he said unsteadily, “the worst you have endured.”

  
  


She let her head sag, her thoughts too scattered to address what had just happened. “There's always something worse,” she whispered.

  
  


“Now,” he said, gathering her close to cradle against his chest, “you are beginning to understand.”


	5. Chapter 5

When her eyes opened, she had been struck blind.

  
  


The blackness was impenetrable, absolute; there was not the faintest glimmer of illumination for her vision to turn to its use. She struggled to raise herself on one elbow, blinking frantically in an attempt to clear her sight; when that didn't work, she shook her head furiously.

  
  


Nothing.

  
  


She tried to hoist herself upright, but a dead, moveless weight dragged her down, keeping her pinned. Her fingers scrabbled against the hard, unyielding surface beneath them; one of her nails broke with a sickening click. She would have welcomed the pain, if only to remind herself that she was real, but there was none; only the rough surface digging into the pads of her fingers as she clawed at it with increasing desperation.

  
  


Into that isolation came a sound: ringing, caroling, building into an incessant, rippling screech of metal. She might have screamed, had the sound not shocked her into immobility. She tensed, cudgeling her brain for a possible source of the clamorous, tearing din, before her wild need for escape got the better of her. She clawed at the stone ever more urgently, fighting to free herself of the overpowering weight that bore her down.

  
  


He came to with a jerk, his knee digging sharply into the back of her thigh. The hand that was holding her right arm pinned against her body clenched hard enough to leave a low, dull ache in its wake when he pulled free to brace himself as he exhaled a long, shuddering breath. A moment later, he pulled her back against himself; his hair trailed along her face and neck like the ends of cobwebs. “Be still,” he told her, the breath of speech cold against her ear. “The flame was lost.”

  
  


Michelle lay quietly, her eyes still frantically searching the darkness for something, anything that she could _see. _She felt as if she had been swallowed whole, left alone to rot in some indescribable prison, punishment for the extraordinary senses she'd gained with her stolen life. No, not alone; that would be too pleasant. She flinched at the feel of the hand running along her flank, transcribing the curve of her hip, as Radu slowly disentangled himself from the embrace they'd lain in. She drew her knees up to her chest, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

  
  


The sound of his movements was easy to track, and provided a welcome interruption to her quickly burgeoning panic. He made his way across the space with the ease of long practice and ancient memory. There came a short, sharp scrape, and a moment later, soft amber light was visible through her skin.

  
  


She dropped her hands and let her eyes fly open, even though she knew she would regret and, indeed, was correct; she raised a hand to shade her eyes as she winced against the sudden, painful brightness. Her vision hazed for a moment with the sharpness of it; a few more blinks cleared it, revealing the small stone room she found herself in. She sat up with a jerk, bracing her hands against the stone beneath her; one hand slid across an unexpected softness. She clutched at it instinctively, lifting it up to her face: a swathe of dusty, moth-eaten red velvet.

  
  


The cell. The first cell in Radu's lair; she was seated on the plinth.

  
  


The events of the night past came back to her with enough of a rush to make her dizzy; she raised a hand to her face as if to ward it off, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear instead. Everything... the pianist, Iris's news... and then the woman; she shook her head, dazed, and wondered if this was what a hangover was now.

  
  


Radu stood beside the door, its rusty iron portcullis raised, adjusting the knob at the base of one of the gaslamps; the tiny flame lowered until it was barely a glow. _The flame was lost._ She could see no other light; it must have happened all at once. Perhaps the shrieking she had heard had simply been the rattle and whine of pipes as their service was interrupted.

  
  


It was almost funny; even the plumbing here was inimical.

  
  


Radu turned to regard her, leaning back against the wall; the soft overhead lights rendered the planes of his face even more starkly, making his eyes nearly invisible in their deep pits, his expression unreadable. She shifted awkwardly, uncertain of what to say; one of the small blessings of her life was that he was rarely present when she awakened.

  
  


He'd been holding her. She remembered the feel of his limbs sliding against hers, and the soft, contented sound he'd made as the dawn had rendered her insensible.

  
  


She'd awakened before he had.

  
  


“Darkness can be unnerving, even to those who dwell in it; very rarely are we allowed the opportunity to truly confront it.”

  
  


She looked up, startled; it was the closest he had ever come to acknowledging weakness. But something in the cant of his head and the set of his shoulders told her that he was not speaking on his own behalf; he was excusing her, something he had never done before. “I just... I was dreaming, I think.”

  
  


“Truly?” His eyebrows raised.

  
  


“I... I'm not sure.” She wasn't sure why she'd said it in the first place; from sunrise to sunset, she might as well have been truly dead, completely divorced from the world around her. The diaphanous sense of unreality clinging to her thoughts must have inspired it; she remembered feeling like this, having awakened early in the morning, when the world didn't quite seem to be itself. “Do you dream?”

  
  


He smiled as he folded his arms, lips pulling back just enough to reveal the beginnings of his fangs. “Oh, yes,” he said softly.

  
  


Uncomfortable with the intimacy of his tone, she sat up and slid to the floor. He made no move, but simply watched her do it; she stood beside the plinth, uncertain. He was close enough to the door that she did not wish to move past him, even had she had some destination in mind, but the intensity of his regard made her uneasy. Perhaps he felt what had transpired last night, that had kept them kneeling in each other's arms until dawn spurred them into a dash for sanctuary, had changed things, and perhaps he was right; but she was eager to begin attempting to drive the memory of it from her mind. “Is there...” She licked her lips, and started again. “Am I required anywhere this evening?”

  
  


His smile disappeared, and he tilted his head, as if considering her. “I must bespeak Ash,” he said finally. “I expect you to accompany me.”

  
  


She nodded briefly, looking away. She had often longed for the confused fog of mortal awakening, thinking it would take some of the sting from being confronted with the harsh reality of her existence anew each night, but now that it had returned to her, she wished it gone almost as desperately. She needed as many of her wits about her as she could gather; Radu alone was too much to contend with, never mind attendance at some kind of war council. She smoothed down the front of her coat, her fingers running briefly over a small, sharp bit of metal within, and her resolve strengthened somewhat. None of it mattered; as much as she had trained herself to endure, rather than contemplate, whatever this was would truly be the last of it. She intended to be gone from this place the instant circumstances allowed.

  
  


Radu seemed to be awaiting some further response, but she could think of none to offer him; it was all she could do to keep her features schooled into the attentive blankness that had become her habit with him. “Come along,” he said, after she made no movement. “It will be difficult enough to drag him from his chambers; we had best begin.”

  
  


Michelle winced at the implication as he turned and left the room. Ash would almost certainly be occupied with the poor musician from last night; this was probably the vampiric equivalent of interrupting a honeymoon. She wondered if that was simply an added benefit on top of whatever nastiness Radu had planned for him, or if Radu was intending to do something spectacularly vicious. Some of her resolve bled away as she followed him; she knew as well as anyone just how quickly these kinds of quarrels could turn violent. She had no intention of fighting Ash on her own behalf, no matter how reasonable Radu's view of the situation was in its context; she absolutely was not going to do so on his behalf.

  
  


Which might be his backhanded intention, she realized as she made her way down the hall. None of the other lamps were lit, but even the faint glow from behind them provided plenty of illumination to see by. He might be provoking Ash on her behalf, giving her a relatively guilt-free excuse to act out what he was certain were her true desires; he would probably consider it a subtle, delicately wrought kindness. She shivered at the thought, and forced it from her mind. She hadn't been right about much, since they'd come to this place; she hoped she was wrong now.

  
  


Radu moved ahead of her, a silent shadow; she might have thought him one in truth had there not been the dead whiteness of his hands folded behind his back. She could not begin to hazard a guess as to his mood, nor did she really want to; she suspected she would like it even less than usual, for reasons she was unwilling to devote much thought to. She set her jaw, following obediently. This couldn't take long, whatever it was; she'd have the whole night ahead of her.

  
  


They entered the main room soundlessly. A few steps brought them to the massive door. Radu raised a hand to open it, but stopped abruptly; his lips peeled back from his teeth in what might have been a grin. “Ah,” he said, a strange note in his voice. “A reprieve.”

  
  


She stopped, confused. Radu reached down to one of the small round tables flanking the door, and plucked from it a small, light-colored square. He turned and presented it with a sardonic flourish, holding it out to her in his cupped hands.

  
  


Michelle took it gingerly by one corner, careful not to brush against him as she did so. Her fingers met a surprisingly soft substance, and she realized it was an envelope made of thick, creamy paper. But its smooth surface was gritty with dust, and a shred of cobweb dangled from one corner; it looked as if it had sat undisturbed for decades.

  
  


She ran her thumb along its opposite side, and encountered a crumbling wax seal. There were no other markings on it; she turned it over, and saw that there was no impression in the dark wax. She looked up at him uncertainly, but he said nothing, and evinced no doubt that it wasn't for her. She worked a nail beneath the seal gently, pausing. She hadn't noticed it lying there the night before; but, then, she hadn't been looking. This envelope was _old_; there was no question of it being a recent delivery, even assuming someone could have gotten in to leave it during the day somehow. She could not imagine what kind of game Radu might be playing, but she was certain she wasn't going to like the rules; nevertheless, there seemed to be no way of avoiding it. Digging her finger rudely beneath the flap, she slit it open, upending it into her other palm.

  
  


It contained nothing but a small square of parchment, perhaps a little bigger than a business card. Its edges were decorated in a complicated scrolling design, and its center bore only a single word in complex, twisting letters:

  
  


MICHELLE.

  
  


Her gaze darted up to Radu's face, but his aura of tense amusement had not altered. This had to be some kind of joke... but he had never struck her as the type to whom humor had come easily. And there was something familiar about the little card; the decorations were very distinctive, and she had the nagging feeling that she'd seen them before. She thought first of Cornelius Agrippa's scroll, and the strange rounded hand it had been written in, but that wasn't right; this was something much more... _theatrical. _Vaudevillian, even.

  
  


“The Oracle,” she said, running her thumb across the slightly raised typeface. It matched her sign. She looked up at Radu for confirmation; his lips pursed further.

  
  


“She is not often so direct,” he said, “nor did I warn her of your mulishness. Most wondrous!” He straightened, adjusting the hems of his sleeves; she couldn't determine who the mockery in his tone was directed at. “It would be prudent to heed her summons when she has gone to so much effort to issue it.”

  
  


“But why?” she asked, alarmed; frail as she had appeared, Michelle had not been comforted by her mien. “What could she want with me?”

  
  


“Something fruitful, I have no doubt.” His expression grew serious. “You may be insensible of the honor done to you in this; but there are many who would give much and more to find themselves in your stead.”

  
  


The intensity, the evident _belief _in his statement only made her more nervous. Their strange friendliness had struck her as odd when she had first witnessed it, but the unequivocal respect he displayed now was even harder to believe. She wasn't sure she wanted to encounter someone that could command that kind of reaction from him; she shuddered to think at what might have happened to instill it.

  
  


She looked down at the card again, and realized that what she had taken for scrollwork was actually a design of twining vines. No: it was a rose briar, its thorns proud and erect, without a single flower in evidence. Comforting. Very comforting. She caught her lip between her incisors, thinking as hard as she could; she could see no easy way out of this. “Just me?”

  
  


“She's sent for you, and would no doubt be quite displeased were I to accompany you... but I shall, if you wish.” His nails grazed the back of her hand; she looked up, startled by the sincerity of his expression. He was concerned, whether for her state of mind or her actual well being she could not guess; the sheer fact that he felt there was cause for concern at all did nothing to assuage her rising uncertainty.

  
  


This might be salvageable. She could tell him no, of course not, she would be honored to visit the Oracle, and try to convince him that she needed time alone to prepare, thus allowing herself plenty of time to get clear of Club Muse before anyone noticed her absence... unless the woman sent someone to look for her, giving the scheme away all that more quickly. Did the Oracle keep set appointment times? She doubted it; she could duck into the woman's faux tent, make her apologies, and be on the way with no one the wiser.

  
  


Her grip on the card shifted, rubbing the grit that coated it against her finger. She wanted to dismiss it as a phenomenal bit of special effects, but after all she'd seen, as absurd as the thought was, that was not so easily done. If the woman truly could see the future, what was to stop her from leaving a pre-invitation to lie in wait for Michelle's eventual arrival?

  
  


If the woman truly could see the future, what else might she be aware of?

  
  


But that way lay madness, and Michelle pushed the thought firmly from her mind. The woman was obviously important here, and must serve a special purpose of some kind or another... but so did Iris; echelon at Club Muse was no guarantee of decency. More than likely this was some kind of attempt to extract information from her by playing on her credulity... but Radu seemed utterly convinced, and what information could they be seeking from her? She turned the card over fretfully, and stopped as the writing on its back caught her eye. The delicate, cursive pencil strokes were difficult to make out at first, but her eyes soon adjusted; when the elegant swirls resolved into sense, she nearly dropped the card.

  
  


_The tickets were in her cat purse._

  
  


It took a moment for the memory to coalesce: she was so divorced from that period of time, no matter how recent, that it seemed almost as if it had happened to another person, but she knew immediately what the line referred to. Prejnar was nearly six hours away by car from the nearest airport, but they had been told that a bus was available to take them to Bucharest; upon arrival, they found that the bus had not run in months, and were obliged to scramble for train tickets.

  
  


Lillian, having spent Spring Break in Cancun the year previous, had felt herself a much more seasoned world traveler, and had cheerfully taken over the arrangements. But when the time came for them to change trains, the tickets purchased with their hastily exchanged drachmas were nowhere to be found. That had been a bad fifteen minutes, while they frantically searched their baggage, and Lillian had begun to near-tearfully protest that she had been pick-pocketed... until a final rummage through her purse revealed them folded snugly into her Felix the Cat change purse. She had hidden them so well, even she had been nearly unable to find them.

  
  


She heard a dull ringing in her ears as she stared at those simple words, wracking her brain for an explanation. The mere fact of the additional information meant nothing. She had half-expected it; it was a good way to build belief. But this was nothing Radu could have known; nothing _any _of them could have known. They hadn't even told Mara of the brief tragedy, unwilling to spoil the pleasure of their reunion.

  
  


Michelle hadn't, anyway. Perhaps Lillian had... Radu could have learned of it from them; she had no idea how far his eerie powers of perception truly extended. But her gut told her that he hadn't.

  
  


“No,” she said. “I think I'd better handle this on my own.”

  
  


Radu nodded, his hair sweeping over his shoulders; she could sense the approval in the gesture. “Then allow me to escort you.”

  
  


She had expected that they would take the quick way upstairs, once they had passed through the seal of the door, but Radu proceeded towards the stairs. She followed wordlessly and wondered, as they began to climb, why they did so; it was not taxing, but it was tedious. Suspicion made her wonder if there was some unknown reason that they _couldn't_; some sort of unseen sorcery meant to catch the unwary shadow, but there was no indication that she could detect... not that she was a noted expert in such things. Perhaps it was more innocent than that; the length of the ascent, all hemmed in by stone, gave one plenty of opportunity to marshal one's thoughts and prepare for the chaos of Club Muse.

  
  


Michelle did not; she struggled to keep her mind as blank as she possibly could. Like stepping through rotten ice on a pond, she had once again found herself in one of those strange supernatural offshoots whose depths she could not fathom; there was nothing she could do but tread water as best she could. She did not particularly fear drowning in the Oracle's clutches—the old woman was hardly the most ferocious opponent she had yet faced—but, then, horrific as her countenance had been, Circe had not appeared particularly intimidating, either.

  
  


Her ears were tuned enough to the particular babble of this place that she could sense the noise of the main floor a staircase below its own flight; the soundproof doors evidently did not do much good when one was in the hallway. Her trepidation increased as they mounted the last stairs and the dull roaring flooded her ears; the mere thought of enduring it once more made simply bolting for it seem fleetingly like a decent option.

  
  


Radu paused for a moment, his hand resting on the lever, and she knew the brief wince she'd thought she'd seen the night before had not been her imagination; he was no more fond of the din than she was. It was still hard to associate him with this place as its guest, let alone its progenitor; the idea that he could move in society at all, if only on its fringes, was almost impossible to reconcile. She suspected Ash had been responsible for most of the day to day operations, as he was now, but Radu had _been _here. Had he lurked in one of those curtained alcoves, peering between the drapes and gloating over the cattle he had managed to attract? Selecting a prime cut for the evening meal?

  
  


She shuddered.

  
  


When the door wheezed open, the rush of sound was just as bad as she had expected, but there was at least no surprise in it, this time. She could feel the tension building in her temples, but there was no immediate headache to accompany it this time; she felt a thin thread of unease at the recollection, though she could not have said whether it was because she believed Ash had seen fit to do that to her, or the sheer fact that he was _capable _of doing it. She wished him much joy of whatever Radu had in store for him.

  
  


They threaded their way across the room rapidly, clinging to the sides of the walls once more. She couldn't resist a few nervous glances at the crowded room, but as before, it seemed as if they were invisible. She would have to trust in Radu's confidence of his ability to pass unnoticed, and hope devoutly that no drunken patron attempted to confront them directly.

  
  


Their journey seemed shorter this time; she was not sure whether to put it down to genuine haste, or the simple fact that she was no longer gazing around in awestruck wonder. No matter how intriguing the secret society that dwelled here, no matter how elegantly it was shrouded, she had seen more of the dark, rotten heart of this place than she had ever wished to. It had become simply yet another thing to be endured; she meant to get it over with quickly.

  
  


Nevertheless, her nerve weakened as her feet carried her into the small, dim bar, and inevitably closer to the curtained booth that housed her current issue; as calmly as she tried to contemplate it, she truly had no idea what she was getting into.

  
  


Radu stopped a few feet from it, his back still to her. Something about his hands, fisted in his pockets, gave his stance a surly cast, almost defiant. She paused, with a wariness that only increased when he turned and she saw the pensive, brooding look on his face. He regarded her for a long moment, one corner of his mouth twisted in thought, before he stepped forward, leaning down to speak into her ear. She was certain he meant to offer some kind of advice, some warning. “Join me after,” he whispered.

  
  


He straightened, awkward without his arms free, and left before she had a chance to respond; Michelle, nonplussed, simply watched him go, one thin dark shape amongst many. Her eyes flicked to the Oracle's sign, and she chewed her lower lip fretfully. _Nothing to it but to do it_, she told herself in an attempt at false cheer; but Radu's abrupt departure set her spine tingling in a way little else could have done. She could still leave now, she supposed, and take her chances.

  
  


She lifted her head to scan the room, half-trying to convince herself that it really would be the easy way out, and caught sight of Radu once more. He was just about to exit the bar; but, as if he sensed her gaze, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. She nearly took a step back before the force of that look, so fraught with some unnameable emotion she could scarcely bear it. She felt absurdly like a small child dropped off at the first day of kindergarten; ducking her head, she turned back to the booth to escape it.

The curtains were unprepossessing enough; though they extended out a bit further than usual, from the outside this might have been any of the private alcoves, were it not for the signage. She felt a sudden made urge to simply sweep the drapes aside and barge right in; if the woman really could see the future, she'd certainly know Michelle was coming. But her own innate manners, tempered with the memory of Radu's tentative scratching at the paneling, and the patience with which he'd waited for a response, kept her from doing it. But letting herself think about it too much would only allow her the opportunity to grow more frightened; before she could come up with an excuse not to, she raised her fist and knocked briskly on the dark, stained wood framing the doorway.

  
  


The lack of response was not exactly unexpected, but it was nerve-wracking; she strained her ears, worried that she would miss some faint response in the clamor from the main room, but there was nothing that she could convince herself was permission to enter. Biting her lip once more, she frowned, folding her arms. It wasn't fair; she had finally worked up her courage to actually _do _this, and the woman couldn't be bothered to respond. She rapped on the frame once more, cocking her head, but there was still no sound she could pinpoint as issuing from within. That was fine, Michelle decided; if the woman had merely stepped out for a bathroom break, she'd understand.

  
  


Parting the silks that cocooned the entrance, the slippery fabric sliding around her fingers, Michelle peered into the depths of the tiny room, but could make out nothing but the vague shapes of furniture: there was the round table, the chairs on either side of it, the longer table that ran along the wall, all shrouded in their gaudy hangings. Emboldened, she poked her head in. “Hello?”

  
  


Was that a faint rustle of movement? She just wasn't sure. A sudden fear gripped her; the woman was alive, and she was _old. _What if she had suffered a stroke, a heart attack, some other ill that plagued the elderly, and was dying even now? No matter who or what she was, once divorced from the passion of the hunt, Michelle couldn't condemn anyone to a lonely death like that; nor did she imagine Radu or Ash would thank her for abandoning the woman.

  
  


She swept the curtains aside, trying to avoid becoming tangled in the sinuous fabrics winding around her. The woman _was _seated at the far chair, slumped down so far that Michelle had at first mistaken her for one of the hangings. Shaking herself free from the curtains, she could have crossed to the woman in one stride, but her foot came down on something hard and slithery. The space was too small to flail her arms for balance without knocking something down; she let herself slip, landing lightly on one knee, whatever she had tripped over digging into her even through the fabric of her skirts.

  
  


“Oh,” a voice said softly. “There you are.”

  
  


Michelle's head jerked up; the woman had lifted her chin from her chest, and was wriggling herself upright, bracing her wrists against the edge of the table to assist herself. Her face was still obscured by veils, but she turned to Michelle with pinpoint accuracy, seemingly perfectly alert once she had righted herself. Had she simply been asleep? Michelle's anger bridled at the notion that this was some sort of trick to win her sympathy, a test to see what she might do; uncertain as to what might come from her mouth were she to open it, she put her hand on the floor to see what she had stepped on.

  
  


The tiny room was covered almost wall to wall in what would have been a lush Persian area rug in any other space, but a few inches of the parquet flooring beneath peeked out along each wall. Michelle realized the tiny round objects beneath her fingers were coins; the two slick surfaces sliding against one another were what had cost her her balance. Over there lay the basket that had held them; it had probably taken a tumble from the sideboard. She imagined them raining down upon the floor, the jingling, high-pitched ringing they would have made; she remembered the sound she had awoken with, ringing in her ears, and she grew very frightened.

  
  


_The eye of the Oracle is upon you! _she thought, a half remembered quote from a source she couldn't name. It couldn't be, she told herself; it _couldn't _be.

  
  


But, then, neither could vampires.

  
  


She pulled the basket over and, wordlessly, began scooping the coins back into it. The coins were a plethora of different sizes, some fat, some thin. Many were drachmas, but she identified a crown and a sous amongst them, as well as what she was fairly certain was a Liberty dollar. Some were simply smooth disks with rough-milled edges; some of them shone with the unmistakable gleam of gold. Michelle was half-expecting to find them in matched pairs.

  
  


“Thank you, dear,” the woman said.

  
  


Michelle nearly flinched at the sound, pausing momentarily in her gathering. “Of course,” she said finally; it served Radu well enough as an all-purpose response. The silence dragged on as she swept the coins back into their basket, and she found herself slowing down as the number on the floor decreased, smoothing her hand across the carpet as if searching for those that had rolled astray. But she presently felt the ruse growing transparent, if indeed it had ever worked. She rose to her feet, setting the basket gently back on the sideboard. “You summoned me,” she said, for lack of anything else.

  
  


The veiled head, surmounted by the odd little pillbox hat, inclined itself in a nod. “Do have a seat with me.”

  
  


Cautiously, Michelle moved to do as she bid, reminded once again just how claustrophobic the little booth made her. She was scarcely able to withdraw the chair from beneath the table without banging it on something; even with its back against the wall; she found her knees pressed against the edge of the table. She folded her hands in her lap, sitting as straight as she could, and regarded the woman over the crystal ball that dominated the table.

  
  


“You may have a light, if you wish,” the woman said, gesturing vaguely at the small brazier beside them, “but it's all the same to me.” Michelle found herself marveling once again at the incongruity of the woman's voice; strong and firm, had she heard it in isolation, she would have assumed the speaker to be heard own age. More: there was the faintest ghost of an accent hovering around the woman's words; it wasn't the harsh glottals she had grown used to hearing, but it was still a touch exotic in Michelle's ears. Not British, not from the isles that surrounded it... Indian British, perhaps; whatever it was, she found it disarming and intriguing.

  
  


Which might well be the point, she realized. “I'm fine,” she said shortly.

  
  


“Braving the dark, or frightened of the fire?” Michelle blinked in surprise at the question; when the old woman spoke again, her voice was laced with humor. “I've never met a new one before,” she said. “You'll have to forgive an old woman her curiosity.”

  
  


“Is that why you asked me here?” she asked, temper stirring once more. “To satisfy your curiosity?”

  
  


“Are you that angry to be reminded of your friends?”

  
  


“Shouldn't you _know?_”

  
  


The Oracle laughed delightedly, clasping her midsection and leaning back in her chair. “Ah, no wonder he chose you,” she wheezed between peals of laughter. Michelle braced her elbows against the arms of the chair, stunned; of all the things she had worried might befall her, being made sport of was not one of them. But the fact that this _stranger,_ no matter what she might be to the vampires she'd made her life amongst, would dare to _laugh _at her--

  
  


She surged to her feet, hands balled into fists; the chair would have fallen to the ground had it not been so closely pinned against the wall. The Oracle's laughter abruptly ceased; she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Going to strike my head off, are you?” Her voice was whipcrack sharp with annoyance, not a hint of fear in it. “Going to vanish in a puff of smoke? No? Then sit _down._”

  
  


Almost against her will, Michelle did so; absurd as it was, she could not help but feel chastened by the woman's schoolmistress command. “Thank you,” she said. “You may have all the time in the world, but I've none left to spare for posturing.”

  
  


Just that easily, bitter anger and gnawing enmity surged anew within her. “That's it, isn't it?” she said through clenched teeth. “You're a fraud. You don't see the future; you just aren't scared of them!”

  
  


“You're not as wrong as you might be,” the woman agreed easily. “Sometimes, I think the most important thing I do is remind them of how ridiculous they are—a service I intend to render you, if you've the wit to sit still and keep your mouth shut.” She straightened in her chair primly. “But the foreseeing does help.”

  
  


Michelle leaned back, folding her arms beneath her breasts, the rage building within her spurring her tongue. “What is it, then? I need to surrender my pretensions and submit to Radu's every whim or doom and gloom will befall me?” She looked away, seething. “I hear that quite enough from him.”

  
  


Surprisingly, the woman's voice was gentle, almost kind, when she replied. “My dear, I know you can't have had an easy time of it,” she said, extending a hand to lay palm-up on the table. “But that doesn't mean you _can't_.”

  
  


“Now I know you're making it up,” Michelle snapped. “The two of you seem to be—_friends—_butyou...” She shook her head, unable to fathom how this woman could presume to offer that kind of advice; she gathered herself to rise. “You couldn't say that if you knew what kind of monster he was.”

  
  


“And yet, as many times as he's put his face against my neck, he's never tasted my blood.” Some trick of the light gave her the lower half of the woman's face; her wrinkles creased even further in a smile. “Shocked?” she asked, half-laughing at whatever she saw in Michelle's expression. “Your parents did, too, you know.”

  
  


Shocked was not precisely the word for it. This elderly, frail creature before her hadn't always been so; but the idea that she and Radu... that he had had a _lover_, one who evidently still maintained some level of fondness for him...

  
  


“I'm not jealous,” the Oracle assured her briskly. “But you might credit the fact that I know whereof I speak... particularly when I tell you that you aren't doing yourself any favors.” She patted the back of Michelle's hand. “He may not see the forest for the trees... but he's a _monster, _not an animal.”

  
  


And therefore Michelle was supposed to... what? Employ sweet reason? Seduce him? Cozen him around to her way of thinking? _Insanity. _“I'm sorry,” she said, rising to her feet. “You seem to think you're helping, but I can't—I can't listen to this--”

  
  


“And here I thought a nice, modern thing like you might appreciate some straight talk,” the Oracle spat. “_Silly _me.” With surprising speed, she drew a deck of cards from somewhere within her voluminous sleeves. Three cards slapped down on the table: a man, dangling from a tree branch by a rope tied to his feet; a tower, flames shooting from its windows as its hapless denizens leapt to their deaths; and a pale, skeletal moon, looming above a sea that teemed with unnatural life. “Do you want to know why I summoned you, miss? Because I see him lying in his grave, _and you in it beside him_. You needn't tread this path--”

  
  


“No,” Michelle said, raising her chin; the dire prediction, as simple and easy as it was, was almost freeing. “No, I think I do.”

  
  


She turned, foregoing a dramatic exit in favor of not overturning the furniture; the Oracle flapped an irritated hand at her. “Take the books,” she spat disgustedly as Michelle swept through the curtains.

  
  


Michelle let her feet carry her away blindly, for the moment concerned with nothing more than escaping the close confines of that booth and the lunacy contained therein. Her thoughts spun as her teeth clenched and her hands balled into fists; even the thin sharp pain of a fang piercing her lip did little to distract her from her agitation.

  
  


The nerve. The _nerve. _Did Radu think her so credulous that a carnival fortune-teller could sway her to his side? For he'd certainly put the woman up to it; why else would she have bothered? The idea that a few ominous words in a close, dark room would be enough to spook her into obedience... they might as well have arranged for the sound of thunder and lightning to strike at the appropriate moments, to lend the woman's predictions the necessary gravity. The sheer _idiocy _was almost more offensive than anything; that he'd think her so easily, childishly led.

  
  


But perhaps she was still giving him too much credit. The woman had obviously been involved with whatever was going on here for a long time; it would take a skillful trickster to keep the wool pulled over all of their eyes, but she supposed everyone was vulnerable to the right type of con artist, and they more than anyone else had reason to revere the supernatural. Easy enough to accomplish with a little sensitivity to the social undercurrents and a bit of common sense; tell someone what they want to hear, tell other people what that someone obviously wants them to hear, and you're most of the way there.

  
  


And the tickets had been in Lilian's change purse.

  
  


As much as she wanted to dismiss it entirely, as much as she _knew _she was doing the work of convincing herself, she couldn't shake the sneaking suspicion that there might truly be something to the Oracle. Even if there was, even if the woman was absolutely, one hundred percent accurate—_so what?_ That meant there would be an end, somehow; that meant that she didn't have an ageless, endless road of suffering to look forward to. It wasn't as good as freedom, but it was nowhere near as bad as bondage, with the added benefit of preventing him from inflicting himself on anyone else. She wasn't _afraid _to die; she just didn't particularly _want_ to.

  
  


So be it. _All _of it.

  
  


She looked up, with a faint bit of surprise, to find herself traversing the middle of the club itself; she had been so deeply lost in her own thoughts that even the punishing noise had been unable to snap her out of them. She paused to gather her bearings, but kept going when a waiter discreetly caught her eye; she wasn't in the mood for even the most prosaic of interactions with any of those who dwelt in this place or took its blood money.

  
  


But she was going the wrong way. She was sick of this, sick of all of this, and utterly unwilling to find out what new and revolting discoveries lay in wait for her within these walls. Every time she thought she had discovered its depths, some new and disgusting revelation was sprung upon her. Iris had been surprisingly disappointing, but this last interview had been utterly beyond the limit; the humans who worked here, who made their way by accepting their position in a hierarchy of corpses, were in some ways worse than the creatures who exploited them.

  
  


Looping her way around, so as not to draw attention, she threaded her way through the crowd, deftly avoiding contact with any of the patrons as she made as much speed as she could. This early in the evening, the clientèle once again seemed to be almost exclusively male. Was that the usual dynamic? A nice evening out filled with drinking and gaming, followed up by—her nails dug into her fists as she was sickened by the images that danced before her mind's eye. Everyone here was just meat; everyone was someone's victim. Even Ash, the lord of the revels, was frightened of Radu.

  
  


And who was he frightened of?

  
  


She didn't care.

  
  


Her pace increased as she drew closer and closer to the doors leading to the entrance. It didn't matter, _none _of it mattered; once she was through those doors and out in the night, she would have a whole new set of problems, but they would at least be her _own. _As frightening as it was, it was still almost exciting; she wasn't looking forward to the battle of wits that would ensue, but she counted it worth the cost of whatever brief freedom she was able to win for herself.

  
  


The hand that landed on her elbow would have been hard enough to bruise, had she still drawn breath; even now it was firm enough to arrest her course and nearly jerk her backwards. She whirled around, preparing to face whatever had grabbed her, and was nonplussed to discover it was only a man.

  
  


He laughed raucously, and turned to say something over his shoulder in thick, slurred Romanian; he tugged her closer as he did so, as if expecting her to follow. She planted her feet; he tugged harder, turning to face her with some short, sharp command she couldn't follow, but the annoyance in his voice was unmistakable.

  
  


This man, this stupid, drunk, rich _man_, thought she was part of the package, a piece of the merchandise; this man presumed to lay hands on her. Even when she lived, she might well have slapped him for his presumption; now, she was ready to tear his throat out.

  
  


She yanked her arm free of his grasp, hoping the uncanny strength of the movement and the scowl on her face would communicate all that was necessary. He balked, stepping in front of her with an angry bark; she was forced to fall back a step lest she come in contact with him. Her mind raced as she tried to decide what to do; she was fairly certain she could get past him without harming him too badly, but she wasn't sure she really wanted to be involved in a brawl in the middle of the club... or that she wanted to let him off that easily. It was easy to believe, when confronted with people like this, that some of them simply deserved it.

  
  


She darted backwards as he reached for her wrist, and things might have grown ugly had a smooth, manicured hand not interposed itself, its fingers laying lightly on the man's wrist while its owner issued a soothing, liquid stream of assurances. She looked up, surprised; Dmitri, one of vampires she had been introduced to at the beginning of last night's tragedy, was gently turning the man away, presumably redirecting his attentions toward a more appropriate outlet. Behind them, Cassandra watched anxiously, her lace-gloved hands clasped nervously; the heavy makeup gave her wide eyes an even more winsome cast.

  
  


Michelle's eyes flicked back and forth between her and Dmitri, who had managed to interpose himself between her and the exit while leading the man aside. A setup? Was the man who'd grabbed her part of the act? It seemed a little paranoid, even to her mind, but both of them turning up at once was a dreadful coincidence. That kind of subtlety wasn't Radu's style, but it might be Ash's. She tensed as Cassandra hurried to her side, but the woman was so eager to apologize her command of English seemed ready to desert her.

  
  


“Dmitri has him,” she assured Michelle hurriedly, reaching out to lay a hand on Michelle's arm; her expression of dismay only deepened when Michelle instinctively stepped aside. “Dmitri is fixing it--”

  
  


“It is only that he was overwhelmed by your surpassing beauty,” an oily voice cut in, “a lapse that I find myself able to sympathize with, if not tolerate.” Dmitri had rejoined them, his movements masked by the roar of the crowd. He offered Michelle a small bow, his eyes never leaving her face. “I must nevertheless apologize for his behavior; it is inexcusable presumption to interfere with one such as you.” He straightened, a knowing smile playing around his lips. “I will have him beg your mercy in a dozen tongues, if you wish it.”

  
  


“No,” she snapped. “No, that's fine.” Dmitri grated on her nerves as badly as he had the night previously, but this time, she was able to put her finger on why: he was as much of a fraud as any of the humans she'd met. She wondered if he was new, too, though he exuded none of the aching rawness the third member of Ash's brood had. Dmitri played the role of the dark, seductive creature of the night with all the sincerity of a used car salesman. “If you'll excuse me--”

  
  


“You saw the _Oracle._” Cassandra's voice was hushed with awe, taking some of the strangeness from the non sequitur. Michelle wondered, briefly, how she would take learning that she had in fact called the Oracle a con artist and stormed out.

  
  


Dmitri's expression remained neutral, but he rolled his eyes as he turned to Michelle. “You need make no excuses to us, madam. It is only that we were informed of your most august appointment—which is of course hardly a privilege for one like yourself—and thought only to assist you in reuniting with your lord, below. The warrens can be difficult to navigate.”

  
  


She struggled to remain calm as her thoughts raced. An honor guard was a pretty way to phrase it, but she knew watchdogs when she saw them; _two _of them. Unless, like Iris's assurances, this really was some bizarre attempt at social climbing... “Do you really think I need _your _help to find my way?” she asked with as much imperiousness she could muster.

  
  


“Of course not!” Dmitri lowered his head, raising a hand to his chest. “It is only--”

  
  


“He'll be _angry_,” Cassandra whined. No need to ask which he; it hardly mattered.

  
  


Her nerves wound themselves ever more tightly as she sized both of them up. Neither of them were particularly intimidating; but, then, neither was she, and she knew well what kind of mayhem she was capable of. They were both older than her—it was hard not to be—but she wasn't sure if that mattered... but of course it did; even if they did not grow stronger as they aged, they had more time to practice, more time to learn dirty tricks. Frantic self-defense aside, Michelle hadn't been in a fight since the third grade.

  
  


She still thought she might be able to do it.

  
  


This could easily turn into a furniture-breaking brawl; even if she could beat them, or simply slip free, there would be no disguising it, no pretending it was simply a regular fistfight. She might have chanced it if the rest of the vampires setting out after her immediately was the only consequence, but no matter how good Iris's connections were, she couldn't imagine a trio of monsters tearing into one another in front of so many people could be hushed up. There would be police, there would be searches... the Interpol... her experience with the ambulance crew had been harrowing enough. She couldn't bring herself to risk it.

  
  


“I understand,” she grated. Cassandra at least had the grace to look miserable; Dmitri merely smiled, as if she'd said something witty, and raised his arm in a gesture of invitation.

  
  


“This way,” he said needlessly, falling into step behind her; Cassandra trailed in their wake like a gothic comet. Michelle marched ahead sightlessly, doing her best to blot out the sounds. She couldn't believe she was doing this; couldn't believe she was this much of a coward. She could dissolve into shadows and be gone before they had a chanced to realize what had happened...

  
  


...but they could, too. She remembered Radu's claws sinking into her, that fearful, incomprehensible arrest. She wondered what it would feel like if those claws were meant to rend and tear; wondered if there was any way she would be able to defend herself.

  
  


The doors to the outside were as well-sealed as any of the inner barriers. She'd never make it.

  
  


She still couldn't believe she couldn't even bring herself to try.

  
  


There were _two _of them.

  
  


They ushered her gently back to the door that led below, Dmitri stepping forward to open it and hold it while they passed. Once the door had sealed behind them, he once more gestured for her to proceed. “Have you had occasion to see much of our fortress?” he asked unctuously, as they began to descend the stairs. “There is a great deal more below than there is above.”

  
  


“Enough of it.” They finished the descent in silence; Dmitri stopped at the second landing. “Where are we going?”

  
  


“The master is entertaining your lord in the fourth level,” Dmitri told her as they passed into the long, door-lined hallway Ash had initially led them through.

  
  


“We dwell here,” Cassandra interjected, evidently feeling she ought to contribute to the guided tour; Dmitri paused once more, before turning back to Michelle with a disdainful look.

  
  


“Indeed, it suits our needs. But the fourth level is most sumptuously appointed, its splendors second only to those of the seventh level.”

  
  


“You've never been there,” Cassandra said, suddenly fierce. “We _never _go there, not since--” She hugged herself, shooting Michelle a mournful, apologetic look.

  
  


“Since what?” Michelle asked, her curiosity piqued. Vacuous as she might appear, Cassandra seemed the only one to be even slightly forthcoming with information... that was promptly dismissed as rambling. Perhaps the 'pilgrim' she'd mentioned last night was the true author of those corpses, she thought sardonically. “When did you stop going there?” she asked, as gently as she could manage.

  
  


“Why, since your lord forbid it to us,” Dmitri said smoothly. “There are none here who would dare to disobey his wishes, even if one among us could even nurture such a disagreeable inclination. It is a preposterous notion.” This with another look at Cassandra, who frowned; but, then, it seemed that she did little else.

  
  


They had nearly reached the end of the hall; as they approached the door, a mate to the one at the other end, Michelle realized she had probably just made a terrible mistake. There were _three _doors on the main staircase, before the interminable descent to the seventh level. The numbers matched, but the architecture didn't. She stopped short, wheeling around and fixing Dmitri with a penetrating gaze. “_Where_ are you taking me?” she snapped, hoping bravado might spare her whatever trap she had so blindly walked into.

  
  


“To the fourth level,” he said patiently, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. “The vaults do not connect with each other any more than necessity dictates. Fire is, unfortunately, more of a risk here than one might hope to face elsewhere.”

  
  


“Cigarettes,” Cassandra spat.

  
  


He pulled the door open, revealing an almost identical staircase, but the stairwell itself was much more roughly made, its mortared stone bearing more resemblance to the medieval edifice below than to the elegant stylings of the hall they'd just passed through. Michelle remained where she was, frowning, trying to think her way through this conundrum; she didn't want them at her back; didn't want to go anywhere with them.

  
  


She wished she dared to open her night-eyes, and see them as they truly were, but she didn't really know what would happen; it might only work with Radu, and she was wary of being overwhelmed by the crush of humanity packed above her, never mind any vampires lurking about that she hadn't encountered yet. She could snarl at them, refuse to abide by their obsequiously phrased wishes, and see how far their attitude of servility truly went. She had a feeling that personal prestige amongst vampires was what you made of it... but if she was wrong and one of them snapped, she didn't wish to find herself in some sort of duel.

  
  


Surprisingly enough, Dmitri was the one to present a tolerable option. After a moment's wait for her to precede him, he seemed to accept her reticence, and proceeded down the stairs himself; Cassandra followed, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder.

  
  


_I could slam the door and run for it. _But what kind of head start would those few seconds—seconds that would be spent opening the far door that would allow her upstairs—really buy her? The sinking feeling within her grew leaden as she forced her feet to descend the stairs. She didn't bother to shut the door behind her, entertaining some vague idea of being able to make a quick exit. If the story about fire safety was true, she hoped that someone dropped a candle.

  
  


The stairwell was close, its stone walls magnifying the faintest of sounds; even the soft scritch of Dmitri's sleeves carried a soft echo. They nevertheless managed to make the descent in near silence, and Michelle was grateful that neither of them attempted to introduce her to any further points of interest.

  
  


Down two flights, past a landing, then another two flights; Michelle relaxed fractionally when they stopped, realizing that their route had been identical to the one that led from the club to the dwelling level. Another of the endless, yawning doors, and they had gained the fourth level.

  
  


It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, the dimness within bearing an eerie similarity to that which had been left in Radu's stronghold below; there was a light on, somewhere, but it was so far away and diffuse that it hardly did any good. “The audience chamber,” Dmitri whispered as he started off once more, seemingly content to lead rather than follow. She wondered if that faint hiss of speech was meant as reverence, or a genuine attempt at privacy.

  
  


They crossed a tiled marbled floor checkered in black and white. The ceiling above them was perhaps twelve feet high, limited by its depth, but there was no mistaking that it wanted to yawn cavernously. Fluted columns marched along the walls, supporting gilded arches chased in alabaster. The walls themselves were not quite plain; though nothing hung upon them, there was some subtle effect of paint that gave the impression of looking into a cloud of mist, ever shifting.

  
  


Spartan as it was, Michelle understood what Dmitri had meant by 'sumptuous' as they moved further in. Her initial impression of the main dwelling had been slightly shabby, as if everything were second hand; she might well have been right, and if so, this was where those pieces had found their first use. The décor was similar to what she'd seen elsewhere, but ever so much more _careful_. The furniture was perhaps even less ornate, the quality of materials and craftsmanship left to speak for themselves; the curios were here replaced by airy sculptures, ormolu bowls, and meticulously carved boxes.

  
  


She liked it even less. As beautiful as it was, there was no depth here; none of this was more than set dressing. This may have been the product of hundreds' of years worth of consideration of angle and form, placement and presentation, but it was too _perfect. _There was no sense of pleasure or pride in the treasures on display here, nor even in the sheer avarice of having them. It was like walking through a diorama in a museum dedicated to opulence.

  
  


The rooms narrowed as they passed further in; it felt as if she were being herded down a funnel. Here was a library that would have been the envy of any Victorian gentlemen; here was a drawing room in which the Queen might have found herself at home; here was a small room, plushly carpeted and occupied with thickly stuff divans, that might have featured in an illustration of the Arabian Nights. Michelle quickly averted her eyes once they lit upon the first imperfection she had yet encountered: a small, dark stain spattered across pillows.

  
  


That led into a hall reminiscent of the one on the second level, but there were only four doors lining the sides, and the steel-belted one at the end looked even more forbidding than the dungeon entrance. His lair, she supposed, and hoped ardently that her journey did not end there.

  
  


Her anxiety grew as they drew closer and closer to it, but for once, her luck was in. Dmitri drew up at the last door on the left, folding his hands behind his back; Cassandra hurried to his side, awkwardly mimicking his posture. They both turned to watch her expectantly.

  
  


“We are here,” Dmitri prompted, once she had made no move.

  
  


“Aren't you going to announce me?” she asked, hoping her tone was challenging, rather than petulant. If this were a trap, she had no intention of walking into it first.

  
  


Dmitri bowed. “It would normally be the greatest of honors... but it is not our place to interrupt the masters. Your presence was requested, but not our humble accompaniment.”

  
  


But there was a certain note of tension in his voice as he mouthed those platitudes, and Cassandra's avid expression was much more readable. They were nervous about whatever was going on in there, but their curiosity was getting the better of them; they wanted Michelle to do what they didn't quite dare.

  
  


Was _that _it? Were the underlings maneuvering to rid themselves of a weaker rival? It didn't ring true; though she knew better than to trust the subservient demeanor that had come to seem so standard here, she didn't think they would dare risk Radu's wrath, even if they did think they had reason to be frightened of her... and if Radu meant to be rid of her, he would not waste time on such a roundabout assassination.

  
  


She regarded the door, trying to keep her expression blank. As well made and well maintained as anything else down here, it nevertheless did not seem to contain any dark secrets, any hidden traps to ensnare the unwary.

  
  


Perhaps she was letting her paranoia get the best of her.

  
  


Never.

  
  


Letting her eyelids droop, she strained her hearing for the first time since she'd come here. The silence of the subterranean levels was enough of a relief on its own, but she blessed it now for giving a little bit of her back to herself; she needed something, anything, that would prepare her for whatever it was that awaited beyond that door.

  
  


Silence, at first; Dmitri and Cassandra both maintained the perfect stillness of the dead, without even the rustle of clothing to mark their presences. It was hard to concentrate, but she did not want to close her eyes and give them any inkling of what this was costing her. She listened as carefully as she could, using every trick she'd ever learned to drive everything but the pursuit of sound out of her mind; after an unknowable length of time, she received her reward.

  
  


Sobbing.

  
  


Not from the room before her: to her right. Her eyes slid over to the heavy steel door, a hulking gargoyle amongst the luxury that surrounded it. The master's lair, she thought, with breakfast laid on as soon as this tedious interview was concluded. She couldn't repress a small shudder. She couldn't decide whether or not she hoped Radu had been wrong, and that things had ended quickly for that poor pianist; not if it meant some new innocent being subjected to the piteous, soul-wracking torment she heard in those muffled cries.

  
  


Unable to stand it any longer, her hand flew to the brass lever—no, not brass, she realized dimly, feeling its weighty slickness beneath her palm; gold—and opened it; she was through before she had a chance to think about what she was doing.

  
  


Wherever the light was issuing from, it wasn't in here; even with the door open, she could barely make out more than vague shapes. She laid a hand against it, ready to shut it instinctively, but paused; she wasn't certain she'd be able to see at all if she did. Let them both eavesdrop as much as they liked.

  
  


She was standing in a small room, with delicate chairs placed thoughtfully around it; before her were a set of heavily carved sliding doors that had been left slightly open. The audience chamber, Dmitri had called it; she supposed this was the waiting room. She half-expected to hear either Ash or Radu's voice raised in condemnation, or for some unseen guardsman to seize her, but as far as she could tell, she was the room's only occupant. She could almost feel two pairs of eyes burning into her back; goaded, she stepped forward to peek between the rolling doors.

  
  


She had been wrong. Very wrong. The scene before her was so strange, so incoherent, that her mind refused to acknowledge it: insisted that her eyes were confused in the dark, that she could not be seeing what she thought she was. It was no wonder that her presence had not been noted. She was tempted to fall back, though she could not have said whether it was to flee the sight or to give them privacy, but her numb legs would not carry her.

  
  


The room was dominated by a long table, lined with chairs. Ash was seated at the head of it, but there was little she could see of him but one wide, staring eye; Radu's long brown hair swept over him, obscuring the rest of his features. Radu stood behind the chair, his hands clamped over Ash's shoulders, his long fingers digging in beneath the rib cage.

  
  


He was feeding.

  
  


The short, sharp movements of his head—no. _No. _He raised his head slightly, his hair falling away, but there was no blood on the lips he lifted to Ash's ear; no crimson spoiling Ash's fine cravat. She was so struck by the perversity, by the _intimacy _of what she'd just seen, that it took her a moment to realize that Radu was speaking.

  
  


“—time you have been overwhelmed by your passions.” His voice was a low, breathy rumble. “Nor is it opportune.”

  
  


“And what of yours?” Michelle could empathize with the stark terror she could hear in Ash's voice, and wished she had the ability to control it so strictly.

  
  


“Ah.” Radu's eyes rolled up to meet Michelle's; she could see little more than their liquid gleam. He straightened slowly, as if using Ash to lever himself upright. Keeping a hand on Ash's shoulder, he moved around until he stood behind him, as if in attendance. They had both known she was there the whole time, she realized miserably; she prayed that Radu did not expect her to join in... in...

  
  


“You find us unprepared to receive you, pretty one.” His voice was as even and neutral as it ever got; she told herself fiercely that she was only imagining the faint note of humor she detected in it.

  
  


“I'm sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I didn't mean—”

  
  


“That's quite alright,” Ash said with remarkable aplomb, as he began to rise. “I'll see—”

  
  


“_No_,” Radu snarled, shoving him rudely into the chair. “We have much more to discuss yet.” There was a frozen, terrifying moment while their eyes locked, where she was certain the room was going to explode into violence; but Radu raised his eyes to her once more. “Occupy yourself, my fledgling. Amuse yourself. Go hunting.” One of his eyebrows quirked. “Take them hunting.”

  
  


Ash looked up at him, his expression furious; but he said nothing. Michelle nodded mechanically, glad of any excuse to be free of whatever she had inadvertently walked into. “Of course,” she said, backing away. “At once,” she added for good measure.

  
  


“Good,” Radu said. “Close the doors.”

  
  


She nodded once more, the movement nearly frantic as she stepped smartly backwards and, taking hold of the doors, slammed them together smartly enough to make the wood crack. She froze for a moment, her hands still on the doors, trying to make sense of what she had just seen, but it was no good. She had to get as far away from this place as she could, as quickly as she could.

  
  


She spun on her heel, ready to flee as fast as her feet would carry her, only to find herself confronted with Cassandra's eager, expectant face.


	6. Chapter 6

Michelle fell back a step, pressing her shoulders against the doors once more. “They're busy,” she said inanely. They had to have heard everything, had probably seen everything; what were they going to think about their master's obvious indisposition? Would they try to rescue him?

  
  


Cassandra merely nodded, an exaggerated expression of understanding on her face. “It is often so,” she said, prompting Michelle to wonder... no, hold that thought; Ash was no concern of hers. “But...” Cassandra lowered her eyelids, looking up at Michelle coyly. “We can go out? You will take us?”

  
  


“I...” Dmitri's head appeared around the corner, peering into the antechamber curiously. “Let's leave them alone,” she said, spreading her arms in an attempt to usher Cassandra out of the small space.

  
  


“Oh, but of course!” Cassandra had opted for a more concealing number this evening, though it was no less striking; she gathered the lace and satin of her skirts and skipped from the room as nimbly as a cat. She reached the far end of the hall and turned, regarding Michelle seriously. “It is _wrong _to disturb the master,” she said, with the emphasis of a lesson learned by rote.

  
  


“Of... course it is.” She stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her, and was slightly relieved to feel that the solid snick of its closing was almost identical to that of the main doors. No shadows would be scything through those cracks; they'd at least have a little warning.

  
  


“But you weren't really interrupting,” Cassandra said soothingly. “The prince _asked _for you, as soon as could be. Didn't he?” she asked, turning to Dmitri for confirmation. Her expression hardened into fierceness when he did not respond immediately; she took a menacing step towards him.

  
  


Michelle was about to interrupt the sudden, absurd confrontation when Dmitri raised his hands, stepping away. “Indeed he did,” he said, discomfort written in every line of his body. “I was only thinking... madam, it would be my honor to accompany you anywhere you chose to lead me, and the prospect of the thrill of the chase is ever invigorating, but... you will forgive me for putting myself forward, but you gave me to understand that you had not yet had much opportunity to experience the delights of Club Muse.” He straightened, obviously feeling better as he gained momentum. “Would it be desclasse to suggest that you might prefer to sample some of our homegrown pleasures? I would be happy to--”

  
  


“We are to hunt,” Cassandra said. “The _prince _said we are to hunt. Are you to say that--”

  
  


“_Guys,_” Michelle interrupted, raising her hands; both of them turned to face her immediately, contrite. “Let's... let's just go upstairs right now, okay?” They were bickering so childishly it was almost hard to remember what a gruesome subject they quarreled over, but it wasn't one she wished to debate right this moment.

  
  


“At once!” Cassandra turned to depart. “I must get a wrap. It is important to blend,” she said, throwing a knowing glance over her shoulder at Dmitri. He gave Michelle yet another of his disdainful looks, a mute appeal for assistance, but she met his gaze blankly; deterred, he turned to follow Cassandra with a great deal less enthusiasm.

  
  


Michelle trailed them down the hallway, folding her hands behind her back as her brow furrowed with thought. Was this excellent or awful? He'd told her to leave. _Told _her... and told her to take these two along... neither of whom had thus far impressed her with their predatory expertise. She could do without the pair of watchdogs... but Bucharest was a big city, with all sorts of ways to fuddle the senses. It would certainly be possible to slip away from them, somehow; it might even be easy, she thought, recalling the rapture of the kill.

  
  


No. No, she wouldn't sacrifice another soul on the altar of her dreams of escape... not unless it was utterly unavoidable. She couldn't exactly stop one of them if they managed to catch someone on their own before she fled their company.

  
  


She might not be able to stop them at all. This might not be an act—though she would not put delighting in fooling a credulous stranger past them—but that didn't mean it didn't disguise the same killer instincts she herself was loath to admit she possessed. If nothing else, they would still outnumber her; she might find herself in the same situation that had caused her to refrain from trying to fight them in the first place writ large, splattered across the city streets.

  
  


Not good odds, no; not the ones she would have picked... but the best she was going to get.

  
  


So be it.

  
  


Cassandra opened the door onto the stairwell, sailing through it with inattentive excitement; Dmitri shot Michelle a furtive glance, as if he were debating staying to hold it open for her. She watched the back of his jacket as they climbed, noting the tension of his shoulders; he was not at all enthused by the prospect. Squeamish? Maybe. Maybe she did him a disservice; perhaps the obvious falseness in his persona hid a gentle heart and, like her, he was merely trying to fill the role expected of him as best he could.

  
  


Perhaps he simply didn't care for the idea of walking through the snow. Regardless, that might work in her favor; might at least give her an idea of what their orders truly were. If she could find a way to excuse him from this little excursion, so much the better.

  
  


Cassandra, though... she was hard to fathom. Her kittenish enthusiasm was so honest and open it was nearly infectious... but it was born of the opportunity to be unleashed on the public and murder a hapless bystander or two. Still, the look on her face last night... she had known what was in store for the pianist, and she hadn't liked it. Maybe it was worth talking to her; maybe she'd understand. She wasn't attempting to stage a palace revolt, but if they would only look the other way for a few hours...

  
  


...and, in all likelihood, be savagely punished for it. Knowing Radu, it might be worth their lives. If she was utterly wrong, it would also alert them to the fact that she was going to make a break for it.

  
  


The devil and the deep blue sea. It didn't matter. She had to do something. Perhaps she would have a moment of brilliance, once the situation had been allowed to play itself out a bit further; right now, there was nothing to do but keep her own counsel and be ready to seize an opportunity, when one finally arose.

  
  


Dmitri lurked awkwardly in the hall, his discomfort growing more evident by the moment; if he had had time to learn the trick of utter expressionlessness most of the vampires she'd met employed, it was not availing him now. Cassandra had hurriedly disappeared through one of the doors, leaving it open a crack; Michelle resisted the temptation to peek. The sound of rustling was evident from within; a moment later she emerged, swathed in an enormous fur stole. The long white hairs framed her face elegantly, their snowy purity dotted with black; taken with the lace-sheathed, full-skirted gown, she might have been a wicked queen, stepped out of any number of fairy tales.

  
  


She thought this was blending.

  
  


“I'm ready!” she chirped. Casting a critical eye over Dmitri, she frowned. “It's _winter. _You should wear a _jacket._”

  
  


Hoping to forestall any further conflict, Michelle shook her head. “It's not terribly cold out,” she said, hoping she was right. “Most people don't notice, anyway.”

  
  


Her frown deepened, creases forming on her pretty brow as she considered that. “But... it is difficult enough for us to move among the mortal herds,” she said, once more in that not quite sing-song that made Michelle think she was quoting. “We must never draw any undue attention to ourselves, lest their jealousy turn to violence.”

  
  


Michelle paused once more to take in Cassandra's outfit, but knew that line of discussion to be a lost cause. She was hardly dressed as an ordinary city dweller herself. “Yes, well,” she temporized. “It should be fine.” She gestured vaguely towards the far door. Cassandra's expression softened into dubiousness, but she swept down the hall without further comment.

  
  


She waited for Dmitri to follow, unwilling to have them at her back. He didn't even have the grace to look grateful; his expression was hangdog and miserable as he trudged away. She might normally have empathized, tried a little harder to find some way to sound him out, but he had thus far given no indication that his distress was anything other than personal. A reluctant killer was one thing, and something she still hoped for; but she didn't have the time or inclination to deal with a heel-dragging babysitter.

  
  


The dynamic was impossible to read. Cassandra fairly crackled with excitement, skipping up the stairs with unabashed eagerness; Dmitri gave the impression of a man going to meet the executioner... or the mortgage officer. What was really going on? Which way were they going to jump? Would they present a unified front despite their obvious differences? It might mean the difference between life or death, but she just couldn't tell.

  
  


Her nerves were so tightly wound that she pushed past Cassandra when they reached the landing, wrenching open the door and flinging herself into the din of the club before she had time to anticipate it. She strode rapidly across the room, trusting patrons to get out of her way, trusting her unwanted companions to follow her. Once they were out the front door, she would have a measure of control; once they were outside, all bets were off. She just needed to get there. She gestured sharply at the doormen as soon as she was able to catch one's eye; they hastily opened the doors to the parlor, neither of them willing to meet her eyes as they waited for her to pass.

  
  


The relative silence of the parlor was still a welcome relief. She stopped, closing her eyes and pressing her hands against her thighs; she turned when she did not hear the doors close behind her.

  
  


They were hurrying after her, moving quickly enough that Cassandra had felt the need to lift her skirts, but she could see no reason why they had fallen behind. Seeing her notice, they both hastened to join her, knifing through the crowd; the doors shut behind them with a welcome thump. Neither said a word; both watched her expectantly.

  
  


Michelle took a deep breath, forcing the stale air of the lairs from her lungs. “Okay,” she began, without having the slightest idea of what she'd say next. Reminding them to look both ways before crossing the street, and to hold hands so as not to get separated were probably not appropriate. She searched their faces, hoping for some hint; she didn't even know how old they were. This could be some sort of demented test; they might be watching her for a hint of weakness. She just didn't _know. _“Alright.” She licked her lips. Either she was over-thinking this, and was going to ask a perfectly reasonable question, or she was going to give the whole thing away immediately; there was only one way to find out. “Are you two _used _to... going out together?”

  
  


The brief, aggrieved looks they shot each other were almost comical. “We don't,” Dmitri said. Cassandra pursed her lips, and seemed as if she wanted to say more, but settled for nodding in agreement.

  
  


“Well...” Michelle's eyes flicked to the doormen. Chances were she could discuss hunting in excruciating detail without going into anything they'd never heard before, but she wasn't going to risk it. “Let's step outside,” she said. She could practically taste the fresh air, and once she was unfettered by walls... Their distaste for each other was screamingly evident; she might be able to goad them into a fight. Something. _Anything._ “We've got a lot of ground to cover.”

  
  


Cassandra straightened, brightening immediately, and turned to the door. Dmitri hung back, his gaze fixed on his shoes. Michelle waited for him to move, and became increasingly certain that he wasn't going to. Was this meant as some kind of challenge to her authority? She was perfectly happy to leave him behind; but if she was expected to compel him to follow and didn't... or _couldn't..._

  
  


“_There _you are!”

  
  


The voice was sharp enough that one of the doormen flinched; all eyes flew upward to behold Iris hurrying down her stairs with a clatter of heels. Only Dmitri seemed unsurprised; indeed, he seemed to relax slightly. He hadn't been ignoring her, Michelle realized; he'd been listening for Iris. She must have been lurking up there like a gargoyle, just waiting for the best moment to pounce.

  
  


“You are _supposed_ to be down_stairs,_” Iris snapped as she drew abreast of them, stabbing a finger at the floor for emphasis. “We have—excuse me,” she said with a nod to Michelle, her expression briefly morphing from barely restrained rage to plastic friendliness. “We _have _an ap_point_ment,” she said through gritted teeth, moving to stand almost nose to nose with Dmitri. “Our conversation with Anton?”

  
  


“Oh...” He lowered his head, looking faintly abashed. Cassandra's lips compressed into a thin line. “Of course, but... I have other responsibilities...” He made a vague gesture, a flutter of fingers that might have indicated Michelle. “I can only be one place at a time,” he said with a sickly smile.

  
  


“The master requires--”

  
  


“The master told us to be here!” Cassandra flapped her hands, unable to contain herself. “The _prince _told us to attend her! If you think to--”

  
  


“No one is speaking to _you_,” Iris said, ice in her voice; it was enough to send Cassandra shrinking into herself, shoulders lowering. _You could rend her limb from limb, _Michelle thought, _but you still let her bully you. _“There are certain responsi_bil_ities that must be met, for _all _our sakes. With respect,” she said, her nod to Michelle scarcely an afterthought.

  
  


“That's quite alright,” Michelle said. “I'd never dream of interfering with the... running of this establishment.” It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep from mimicking Iris's strained, emphatic tones; this was too good an opportunity to risk. “If you require Dmitri's services, by all means, don't let me deprive you of him.”

  
  


Iris's eyebrows lifted slightly, her expression smoothing. “That's very kind of you.” A faint touch of superciliousness curved the corners of her mouth. “Dmitri. Down_stairs._ If you'll excuse us,” she said sweetly, then turned back to Dmitri. “You _heard _Lady Vladislas.”

  
  


Michelle was grateful that Iris had already turned to herd the hapless Dmitri back the way they'd come; there was no way she could have disguised the flinch hearing her last words caused. She caught the inside of her lip between her incisors, struggling against the roil of nausea. The horrible thing was that it truly hadn't been a dig at her raw nerves; it had been meant as a sop, a soothing of ruffled feathers after Iris's perceived victory. She'd been pleased to score a point, perhaps, petty vengeance for Michelle's earlier behavior... but she had been _delighted _to make them obey her.

  
  


“I _hate _her,” Cassandra spat.

  
  


Michelle nearly jumped again, startled out of her reverie. “I think I can see why.” Cassandra smiled shyly, and for a brief moment, Michelle felt a slight kinship to her; she shoved it away as quickly as it had come.

  
  


One down, one to go.

  
  


“Well, never mind,” she said, eager to get it over with. “Let's get going.”

  
  


Cassandra beamed. “More for us!”

  
  


“Uh... sure.” Keeping as much of the revulsion from her face as she could, she crossed to the door. Setting her hand on the cool, smooth metal of the lever was nearly a shock; that something so simple as a door should be between her and her first taste of freedom in... but no, she realized, catching a glimpse of Cassandra's swishing skirt from the corner of her eye, it was nothing so little as that.

  
  


She wrenched it open and propelled herself into the night, not giving herself a chance to frighten herself any further.

  
  


She had been right in her earlier assessment: the outside of Club Muse was perfectly normal looking; respectable, even. She found herself on a narrow porch, a short flight of stone steps leading down into a small flagged courtyard. The black wrought iron dividing it from the world outside pressed in on her, a spiky forest of metal, and she realized the design was even more clever: she was standing in front of a row of townhouses that took up the entire block. One would never guess, unless one knew what was inside, that they weren't simply individual residences; there were even lights on at scattered intervals, giving the impression of occupancy. More of Radu's hiding in plain sight, she thought, and shivered at how easy it truly was.

  
  


Cassandra's steps were light, skipping over the stones; she pulled herself up short at Michelle's side, like a dog coming to heel. Her upturned face was expectant, even hopeful; Michelle could barely stand to meet her gaze. She took a moment to gather her thoughts beneath the guise of scanning the quiet, residential street. Taking a deep breath, she focused on the feeling of cold searing her innards; exhaling slowly, she watched the steam curl from her nostrils. “So,” she said. “Is there any place you... usually go?”

  
  


“No.” Cassandra's head tilted in puzzlement.

  
  


So much for that. Michelle wasn't familiar with the area, but it seemed that they had walked a long way from the graveyard in the center of the city; she had no idea where she was. Which wasn't necessarily a problem; they could whip through the shadows quickly enough that they could spend some time circling the city and still have plenty of darkness left. It might provide an excellent opportunity to lose Cassandra. Radu paced her with seeming effortlessness, no matter how hard she pushed herself, but that didn't mean Cassandra would be able to; even if she could, it would be easy enough to brush off as an accident.

  
  


But if it came down to the wire, she would need to know exactly where she was going, if she were to stay ahead. “Well, we'll think of something,” she said, heading for the gate. The dull sound of traffic sounded as if it were coming mostly from the east; she was fairly certain she was hearing the late night bustle of downtown, but she wanted to be sure before she made her move.

  
  


The gate opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges; Cassandra followed her willingly. The sidewalks had been shoveled in the not too distant past, the snow that had covered them arching gray humps along the gutters, but a faint dusting of flakes had fallen since. The crunch of their feet would have been inaudible to human ears, but Michelle marveled at it; they left dainty tracks behind them as they strolled along.

  
  


“Do you know lots of good places to”--Cassandra's eyes darted dramatically back and forth, scanning the night for eavesdroppers--“_hunt?”_

  
  


“I can think of a few,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral.

  
  


“Where?”

  
  


It was almost enough to make her pause; the bluntness of the questions was nowhere near as unnerving as the frank, almost childlike curiosity behind them. Michelle had somewhat mastered the lay of the land, but names, neighborhoods, communities, were closed to her. Did she want an address? “The poorer areas, mostly,” she said. “The authorities don't pay very close attention.”

  
  


“I know.” She looked down, surprised at the sarcasm of the response, but the diffuse light of the street lamp showed Cassandra's expression as wistful. As if feeling the weight of Michelle's gaze, she quickly added, “It makes perfect sense.” She raised her head, her smile surfacing once more. “I just meant the constabulary.”

  
  


They paced along in silence for a few steps; Michelle took a left at the corner, guiding them towards what she hoped was the heart of the city. She wondered what she had just put her finger in; wondered exactly what it was that accompanied her this night. Cassandra might be older than any of them, despite her seeming naivety; but she'd certainly been alive once, must have had aspirations beyond whatever it was she did at Club Muse. People liked to talk about themselves; perhaps it would distract her enough to dull her edge.

  
  


But how to do it without being thuddingly obvious? She had a feeling Cassandra would answer any question Michelle cared to put to her, but she had no desire to engage in an interrogation; that was no way to get someone lost in their reminiscences.

  
  


_Subtlety. Right. _“I used to live in a place like that,” she said. Which wasn't precisely true; though the student apartment she and Ilena had been assigned their junior year had seemed like a pit of squalor, she'd had no idea just how good she really had it. “It's always a little strange to return.”

  
  


“Oh, I _know!_” Cassandra flashed her a gamine grin. “Even to be walking like this, two women, alone, at this time of night... so scandalous!” She giggled. “But that isn't really so strange any more, is it?”

  
  


“No.” Michelle felt a sliver of awe at the magnitude of that question. Understanding intellectually that she was dealing with someone from a different era was one thing; talking to someone for whom the mere act of going where she wished, when she wished, was a fairly recent development was something else entirely. “Not in an area like this, anyway.” A sleepy, wealthy neighborhood; too regal to be quaint, too well-maintained to be authentic. “There's still dangerous areas, where nobody should really go alone, but that's just for safety. It's not... immoral.”

  
  


“Hmph. People always worry so much about what other people are doing. It's about time they kept themselves to themselves.” She nodded sharply, agreeing with herself. “But... you aren't a widow, are you?”

  
  


“No!” Michelle nearly laughed at the seeming non sequitur, until she realized that, if Cassandra was old enough, it was a legitimate question; there had been plenty of eras when a woman had only been free to live her own life when her duties to her family were done. “No, I was a student. A scholar,” she amended, recalling Radu's preference for the term.

  
  


“_Really?_” Cassandra's eyes widened. “At a university? Like Lomonosov?”

  
  


“Yes,” Michelle agreed, though the name was unfamiliar to her. “I have a bachelor's degree. I was working on my master's...” She looked away, hastening her steps. It was hard to think about, let alone discuss; she'd have graduated by now. She'd have been home, probably volunteering somewhere until a paid position opened up, but she'd have been doing it in the daylight...

  
  


Cassandra hurried along beside her. “Are you a doula? A, ah, a midwife,” she tried, perhaps mistaking Michelle's taut expression for confusion. “Like a physician? For ladies?”

  
  


“No.” She couldn't repress the ghost of a smile. “I nearly flunked chemistry. I studied...” She paused, fumbling for a simple explanation; she did not care to attempt explaining anthropology to someone who seemed a little hazy on the basic concept of medicine. “The natural sciences, mostly. All sorts of things.”

  
  


“Oh.” That seemed to content her; she followed quietly at Michelle's side, her head lowered. They crossed another street. The avenue they were on broadened slightly; trees were planted along the curbside, their branches dead and sere in the winter cold. “All sorts of things,” Cassandra repeated quietly.

  
  


Michelle was struck by the frank, pitiful resignation in the other woman's voice, so much so that she nearly laid a hand on her arm. “Only for...” _Six years _had been on the tip of her tongue, but that wasn't true, was it? She'd started kindergarten at five years of age; she'd been in school for eighteen years. It was entirely possible—probable—that Cassandra had never set foot inside a classroom. “I'm only... that wasn't very long ago...” she stuttered, wondering why she was trying to comfort her.

  
  


“Oh, we know you're new. You're still...” Cassandra flapped her arms in a loose-limbed gesture that might have meant anything. “Not that we all weren't,” she added hastily. “It takes time. You've _seen _Anton. Horrible.” She shuddered dramatically. “But why shouldn't you be? The prince could never have a foolish consort.”

  
  


“Oh.” It was Michelle's turn for awkward silence. Perhaps this was evidence of some sort of vampiric royalty; encountering a stranger who seemed so devoutly convinced of her superiority was an unusual experience. “Did you ever meet any of... the others?”

  
  


Cassandra bit her lip, incisors sinking gently into the lipsticked flesh, and was silent for so long that Michelle didn't think she meant to answer. “Serena?” she asked, as if seeking confirmation; she watched Michelle uncertainly from the corner of her eye. “Not... she was one of Ash's fledglings. Before me. She...” She looked up at Michelle, worrying her lip once more. “I'm sorry, I...”

  
  


“It's okay,” Michelle assured her. “I was just being curious.” She kept her expression neutral, wondering how to goad Cassandra into continuing. This must be the Serena they had been talking about last night; the one both Ash and Radu had expected to find in the other's company.

  
  


What had they been doing in that room?

  
  


“She... she was a dancer too. Not like me. She did other things.” The tone of Cassandra's voice left little doubt as to what she thought those things had been; her gaze flicked to Michelle's face for approval. “She was... I didn't know her very long, _really _I didn't. But she... she was mean. Meaner than Iris.”

  
  


That sounded right up his alley, Michelle thought irritably. She was tempted to press for further details, but the woman's unhappiness at telling tales was so palpable she couldn't quite bring herself to... it wasn't as if it mattered, anyway. “You're a dancer?” she prodded gently.

  
  


“Well...” she said shyly. “I was.” She looked up at Michelle hopefully. “The Mariinsky?”

  
  


“The ballet,” Michelle guessed, and was rewarded with a pleased, flattered smile.

  
  


“It wasn't really for ladies to do, but... well.” She dipped her head, bashfully; a blush should have stained her cheeks. “We performed for the czar, many times.”

  
  


“That must have been wonderful!” The _czar. _She didn't think any country besides Russia had been ruled by czars, and they hadn't had one for almost seventy years. Did Cassandra have any information on what had truly become of Anastasia?

  
  


Was that really a question she wanted answered?

  
  


“Well.” Cassandra's smile only widened. “Wonderful enough. It was there that Ash discovered me.”

  
  


“Ash is quite a patron of the arts.”

  
  


“Oh, yes. Dmitri made the most wonderful paintings.”

  
  


“Made?”

  
  


Cassandra shrugged slightly, her smile growing fixed. “We have other things to concern ourselves with, now.”

  
  


“I see.” Michelle had the feeling she was treading unsteady ground, but she couldn't quite see where the hazards lay. Cassandra used to dance. Dmitri had made paintings. Were they truly _that _busy? She doubted it, but she couldn't fathom where else the problem could be. Why would Ash make a point of gathering artists to his side if only to forbid them from practicing their arts? “The woman at the recital last night...”

  
  


“Yes.” Cassandra's answer was short and clipped; Michelle could see the muscle bunching in her jaw, and feared she'd gone too far. She would have apologized, if she could have thought of a way to; even had it not run counter to her purpose, she would not have upset Cassandra on purpose. As wretched as her station was, watching a prospective replacement groomed could not be improving it.

  
  


Though the streets they trod were still deserted, the noise of traffic was becoming a comforting, familiar rush in the background; it was going to be time for her to make her move soon. As agreeable as Cassandra seemed, she still wasn't certain even hinting at her plans would be a wise idea. “It must be nice to get away, at least for a little while,” she said.

  
  


“Oh, _yes.”_ There was no mistaking the near rapture that suffused her voice. “We almost never get to—the Club supplies our needs, of course, but—this is so much more _exciting._ This is how it's meant to be.” Cassandra closed her eyes, raising her head to inhale deeply. “You must _revel _in it, hunting every night.”

  
  


“I have my moments,” Michelle temporized. “You have your duties, but surely you must sneak away sometimes.”

  
  


Cassandra shook her head ruefully. “No, I... no.” She looked up shyly. “I'm... not very good at it.” She bit her lip, watching Michelle hopefully. “This is... this is the first time I have ever been out, without the master.”

  
  


“_Ever?_”

  
  


Cassandra shook her head, a hint of fear skittering across her features.

  
  


Michelle blinked in astonishment, scarcely able to credit it. It made no sense, but it was such a _bizarre_ thing to lie about. How could Cassandra—how could _anyone _spend a century under lock and key like that? No _wonder _she was so strange; a hothouse flower, subject entirely to Ash's whims... fleeing wasn't even an option for her. She'd been raised in a box like a veal; she had no idea, no way to even conceive of what lay outside her walls.

  
  


Pity and horror warred within her, both frozen by a single, terrible thought: what if Cassandra would want to come with her?

  
  


“I'm not _bad_,” Cassandra assured her plaintively. “I don't—I just get carried away! I will listen _very _attentively—I—I hope to learn much from our time here—”

  
  


“No, no, it's okay,” Michelle said, her thoughts racing. “I'm just a little surprised.” She had been dead for two nights before Radu had taken her out, taught her to fly. He'd been leaving her mostly alone for weeks now.

  
  


_A hundred years? _More than that? Immured in a basement, _all that time? _Shut away in the darkness for longer than most people ever lived?

  
  


“Oh...” Cassandra was anxious; her gloved fingers sought each other, writhing in dismay. “I'm... it's important to practice, but he has so little time... he's a busy man...”

  
  


Michelle shut her eyes. This was going to be so much easier than she had thought; why did it feel like a betrayal? “I'm sure he is,” she said. “It's a good thing I'm here.”

  
  


“I agree!” Cassandra clapped her hands delightedly. “Are we there yet?”

  
  


It was almost enough to win a snort of laughter from her; they were scarcely six blocks from the club. Evidently not hunting where you slept had not been a part of Ash's curriculum. Strange; as well established as he was, it did not seem that he would find simply leaving for a time as appealing an option as Radu seemed to. “Not really.” She stopped, surveying their surroundings; not a soul was stirring abroad. The idea of housebreaking flitted through her mind; getting Cassandra involved in a confrontation with the police... “Do you fly?”

  
  


She nodded eagerly.

  
  


“Can you...” She trailed off, groping for a phrase; Radu had never bothered to name that strange, half-psychic way of seeing for her. “...see?” she asked finally, hoping Cassandra would understand what she meant.

  
  


She closed her eyes, her expression smoothing. Michelle thought for a moment this was a resurgence of her embarrassment, that she was searching for some way to explain herself—and then she opened them once more. Cassandra's pupils had widened to the point that they nearly swallowed the iris; yawning, pitch blackness, limned by the faintest ring of green. _Do I look like that? _she thought, horrified; Cassandra only smiled.

  
  


“Okay. Good.” Michelle nodded, as much to reassure herself as anything else. Perhaps Cassandra would be dazzled, drunk on her own senses. “Do you know how to pick your... prey?”

  
  


“Quietly?” Cassandra frowned, apparently deep in thought. “Away, where no one can see. No dragging, though. They yell; people will hear.”

  
  


Accurate, if alarmingly succinct. “Is there a certain... type, to look for?”

  
  


This seemed to stump her. Her brow furrowed even more deeply; she raised a hand to stroke her chin. “Healthy ones?” she offered at length.

  
  


Michelle caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth. Cassandra was almost the most disconcerting of them all; she was so very nearly likable. “Yes, but...” She paused to look around them, as if someone could have drawn near enough to see them, never mind overhear, without their noticing. “It's like... why we go to the poorer areas; people aren't as likely to notice if someone... yells.” Cassandra nodded. “And there are some people...” _That deserve it. _It's what she'd been telling herself all this time; why was it so difficult to say aloud? “...that people don't notice very much. Who others wouldn't _mind _seeing gone. Who are... meant for us.”

  
  


“Like mutton?”

  
  


“_Bad _people, Cassandra. People who the world won't miss. People who hurt other people.”

  
  


She pursed her lips, nodding slightly. “So we hurt them first.”

  
  


“Yes!”

  
  


“Well, then.” Cassandra straightened, her smile reappearing. “Where do we find them?”

  
  


Michelle's shoulders sagged with relief. “We have to look for them. That's the fun in hunting,” she said, trying to force some kind of cheerfulness into her voice; if nothing else, Cassandra might carry this small bit of moralizing away with her. “You can sort of tell how people are feeling? What they're thinking?”

  
  


Cassandra's features crumpled in mild distaste; she nodded uncertainly.

  
  


“You just need to look for...” God, what would she even parse as wicked? _Usurers? _rang in her memory with black, mocking humor. “...people who are... _hateful._ Angry. Who... want to do harm.” She raised her hands in a helpless gesture, struggling to put the sick, wretched fury she looked for into words; she knew it to the marrow of her bones, so much a part of her it was no longer even second nature. “Hunters,” she said. “Predators.”

  
  


“And then?”

  
  


“Then,” Michelle replied, “we find them.”

  
  


That, at least, seemed to please her. Cassandra turned her head towards the city, one arm outstretched as if to reach out and grasp it, and froze, consumed with her search. In that endless, aching moment of hesitancy, Michelle knew beyond doubt that she beheld someone in perfect concert with their own flesh; Cassandra was balanced, poised, a perfect, marble machine capable of anything. Anything at all.

  
  


Even dissolving into smoke and shadows, bleeding into the night like the fragments of a fevered nightmare.

Michelle stood, gape-mouthed; Cassandra was different... _beautiful. _She'd never had the chance to watch anyone but Radu do it; even then, it was hard to pinpoint the exact moment of transition. Cassandra _melted_, roiling and billowing like a bank of fog; her outline was barely distinct, giving way to a dancing, ever-changing chiaroscuro as she moved. But no cloud of smoke had ever moved with such purpose; she was already out of sight by the time Michelle's brain caught up with what her eyes were showing it.

  
  


She stood, caught anxiously between warring desires. Logic screamed at her that this was the moment she needed to head in the opposite direction as fast as she could... but what was Cassandra doing? What had she found? She'd sworn she wouldn't use an innocent as bait if she could at all help it; Cassandra may well have zeroed in on a cranky bartender. And God only knew what she'd do when she found them; Michelle could all too easily see her tearing into someone, lost in the excitement of the chase, oblivious to who or what she was doing.

  
  


Surrendering her flesh to scythe after her, Michelle cursed herself for a fool even as she sliced through the night in pursuit. She tried to tell herself it didn't matter, that the only important thing was getting away; but she could not bring herself to abandon the poor human she may have inadvertently doomed... or the strange, fey little vampire she had unwittingly set upon them.

  
  


Whipping through the darkness, Michelle prayed that Cassandra was moving in a relatively straight line; it was the only way she had any hope of catching her in time to avert a tragedy. She didn't dare use her night-eyes, not while trying to maintain this pace; it was all she could do to remain coherent as she fought for every ounce of speed she could pull for herself.

  
  


The night flew past in a kaleidoscope of whirling, unbalanced colors. Light and dark strobed across her limited field of vision, disorienting her even further. Formlessness, fleshlessness, made it hard to remember where she was, what she was doing, why she bothered, and with no firm, implacable presence to anchor herself to, the idea of simply letting herself waft became more and more appealing. She refused to let herself succumb to it; had she still possessed teeth, she would have gritted them. She flew. She soared. She _burned._

  
  


Her efforts did not go unrewarded; slithering against something metal and smooth, she caught sight of a flicker disappearing around a building that was far too deliberate to be a mere sputtering street light. Arrowing after it, she found herself in a cool, soothing patch of dimness; with an effort that felt like fisting her hands around grains of sand, she resolved herself, finding her feet with a stumble. She braced her hand against something damp and textured; a dumpster, she saw, pitted with rust. She jerked her head up, scanning the depths of the alley; she'd needed this moment to reorient herself, but if it had cost her too much headway...

  
  


..._there. _Smokey and billowing, Cassandra swirled in the alley's dead end, a lazy, indistinct tornado. She seemed to be trying to find a way to seep through the wall, to no avail. “_Cassandra,_” Michelle hissed. The oily black cloud twitched, contracting upon itself, but continued its aimless, ineffectual prodding. Michelle reached out a hand, pausing when she recalled the eerie, insupportable feeling of claws catching her own shadow; an errant movement brought her into contact with Cassandra before she could draw away.

  
  


She yanked her hand back, shivering with revulsion, but there had been no contact; perhaps there had been a sensation of chill slightly more biting than the wintry air, but none of the silken, cobwebbed weight she had expected to feel. The mist contracted even more sharply, as if it were recoiling; but it thickened, flowing, bit by bit restoring itself into the diminutive, fur-swathed woman. “Here!” Cassandra crowed. “Here! Or...” She looked around, frowning. “It should be...”

  
  


Michelle allowed herself a small sigh of relief; even as focused as she'd been, it would be impossible to miss a living presence in a space as confined as the alley. All at once, anger and self-loathing washed over her; this would have been _perfect. _Cassandra had fixated on some strange figment of her imagination, like a dog barking at falling leaves; she could have fled in good conscience, instead of hurrying to the rescue—whose, she couldn't say—like a fool. She turned away, bracing the heel of her palm against her forehead. “There's no one here, Cassandra. Look.”

  
  


“But...” She stepped forward, one hand outstretched uncertainly. “I _saw _someone, from all the way...” She shook her head, as if to clear it. “They moved, but they should be...” She cast about the alley, as if expecting whoever she'd thought she'd seen to materialize before her.

  
  


Furious and disappointed, Michelle balled her hands into fists. She clenched her jaw, lowering her chin to rest on her chest; when she raised it once more, she saw the world through different eyes. She sifted through the lights in the darkness as if sifting through them with her hands; all those bright little lives, so self-important and full of meaning. She sorted through them quickly, looking for the sick, crackling sputter that had come to mean _enemy _to her, but found none. Only one burned, a steady, implacable blaze; for a moment, she was so angry she nearly rounded on Cassandra... and then stopped, realizing that she'd only done as she'd been told.

  
  


“That's a policeman, Cassandra,” she said wearily. _Hunters. Predators._ “It's... a reasonable enough mistake to make, I guess. They can be... territorial.” She closed her eyes with a sigh, letting the superhuman awareness slip away from her. “He's probably doing his rounds. That's why he moved.”

  
  


“But...” Cassandra stepped forward, turning to survey her surroundings. “I see...” She trailed off, hurt puzzlement rising in her voice.

  
  


This wasn't bad, Michelle told herself, struggling to gather her wits. This might, in fact, be perfect. She could pretend to be so disgusted with Cassandra's mistake that she couldn't bear her company any longer, and send her back to the club on her own. It was imperious and nasty enough that it might be accepted as truth, at least for a couple of hours, by which time she could be long gone. She drew in a long, shuddering breath, cleansing her lungs with frozen air. “You assured me that you wouldn't get _carried away,_ Cassandra,” she said in her best imitation of Ash's icy tones.

  
  


“But— ” She turned in place, searching the alley for some sort of vindication. “I don't think—” Her face crumpled suddenly, as if she were going to weep. Michelle felt a wrench of remorse at her own cruelty, and nearly lost her resolve. She pursed her lips as she met Cassandra's gaze as fiercely as she could while she sought for words.

  
  


Whatever she might have said died on her lips, as she realized the faint glitter that caught her eye was not jewelry; nearly a foot of gleaming metal streaked with gore protruded from Cassandra's ribcage.

  
  


She stood, utterly dumbfounded, scarcely able to comprehend what she was seeing. Cassandra remained as she was for one endless, aching moment, her face contorted in a rictus of agony.

  
  


And then she _howled, _a bestial, guttural wail of inhuman, inconceivable agony that died to a hoarse, choking shriek as she dissolved, as if the pain were so great she could not bear to remain corporeal. But even that seemed fragile and punctured; instead of the quick, flowing transformation of such a short time past, she seemed to ooze, running like dripping wax. She puddled on the ground, a pathetic, revolting sight, and began to seep, flowing through the cracks in the pavement like an oil slick.

  
  


A dozen wild, incoherent thoughts flew threw her mind; a mugger, a piece of broken fire escape, an impossible sunbeam lanced down from the heavens in contravention of all natural laws. The blade remained poised in its killing angle. Her eyes could focus on nothing else, the sheer incongruity of it enough to strip her even of fear; almost enough to strip her of life, as it wheeled in a shining arc and swept towards her.

  
  


She dove aside, faster than the eye could follow even in her startled ungainliness. The blade—_that's a _sword, some part of her thought disbelievingly—bit into the dumpster with a tearing thunk of violated metal. She could make out only a little of the dark shape that wielded it, but did not stop to examine it further; she used those precious seconds it wasted freeing the sword to dart past it in a bid for the freedom the mouth of the alley offered.

  
  


A vicious blow to her ankles sent her sprawling to the ground, scraping her chin roughly on the uneven stones. She flung herself onto her back, kicking out wildly as the figure loomed above her; she didn't feel her feet connect, but it was enough to spoil the next blow, the glittering point of the blade scraping across the cobbles beside her shoulder. She whimpered, wriggling away from it as quickly as she could, but the sharp, beveled edge was already up, whistling towards her eyes--

  
  


\--she vanished, whiplashing her shadowy form away from the approaching doom. She had to flee, to fly, to _get away_; she had never seen anything like what had happened to Cassandra, had never dreamed such a thing was possible, and didn't trust to her safety in an incorporeal state. She slithered against the wall, pressing herself hard against and searching for permeability as she darted for the alley mouth; she could have wept as she jerked to a sudden, brutal halt, straining helplessly against whatever tethered her.

  
  


“No!”

  
  


She registered the cry dimly; she hadn't known she could shout when she was like this. She threw herself forward, putting every bit of preternatural strength she could muster into the effort, to no avail. She didn't dare look behind her; there was no pain, but she could not bear the sight of her shadow self impaled, spitted on that sword. She struggled frantically, but she was held implacably fast; she could practically feel the attacker sizing her up, choosing the best place to strike...

  
  


_No._ She did not allow herself to think about the crazed spark of an idea that had occurred to her; she simply acted, trusting her body to carry out its own defense. Folding back on herself with a bizarre, rippling feeling, she swirled against the hand—_nails—_that held her transfixed upon the dingy brick wall—and launched herself off of it.

  
  


Solid once more, she slammed into her attacker with bone-jarring force, sending them both tumbling to the ground in a heaving tangle of limbs. She heard the sword clatter, and slashed furiously at that arm, trying to prevent him from picking it up as he threw her onto her back. Panic, wild and furious, raced through her at the all too familiar sensation; she lashed out savagely, striking his elbow hard enough to buckle his arm. Her scream at the weight of his body on hers was more than half snarl. With strength born of rage she seized hold of his shirt, shoving him backwards; scrambling for leverage, she hauled off and punched him in the jaw with every ounce of inhuman strength she possessed.

  
  


His head snapped to the side so sharply that it seemed she might have broken it; not trusting such an easy solution, she shoved him off, slamming him down on his back with his knees folded awkwardly beneath him. She crawled up his still form, pinning his arms with her knees, and her fingers dug through the heavy fabric wrapped around his throat, seeking the soft, rippable flesh beneath.

  
  


“_No! _No no no no no! Michelle!”

  
  


Cassandra could wait; Michelle had bigger fish to fry. The wool parted beneath her fingers, yielding the delicate skin beneath; her nails shredded it even more easily. She clenched her hands with killing, crushing force, striving for the crack, the thick hot rush of blood--

  
  


“Michelle Morgan! Please, you mustn't!”

  
  


She mustn't listen to such nonsense; she needed to squeeze, to pulverize, to find the point where flesh yielded into a shuddering, pulped mass--

  
  


“_Michelle! Rebecca would not have you do this!_”

  
  


The name tore through her like electric current; galvanized, she straightened, staring wildly around for the one who dared speak it.

  
  


The woman looked small and laughably frail, cowering with one hand raised, as if that would somehow protect her. Long, wispy hair obscured her features, but it didn't matter; she was no one Michelle had ever seen. Anger flared anew within her; this stranger that dared to _interrupt _her, tried to conjure with her sister's memory--

  
  


“Please,” the woman was saying. “Please, I understand, there has been a terrible misunderstanding, but please, _please _do not do this thing.” The terror rolling off her was practically visible, but she held her ground; she twisted her wrist, turning the warding hand into one outstretched in greeting—or supplication. “Please,” she repeated. “I've been looking for you ever since—I've tried so hard to find you both.”

  
  


She glanced down at the still form beneath her; his head lolled bonelessly. This woman was distracting her until he could recover himself enough to—her eye lit on the faint gleam of steel beside him. Launching herself to her feet, she snatched the sword up, sliding backwards until she had the wall at her back and a clear shot down the alley. The woman flinched, crouching lower, but otherwise did not move; they stayed poised, staring one another down. The woman's face was earnest; she was frightened, but not petrified. Michelle could make no sense of it. “Who are you? How do you know my sister?”

  
  


The woman's shoulders loosened slightly; her relief was evident. “My name is Ana, Ana Lazar. I am a doctor.” Her eyes fluttered closed. “I was an attending physician at the Vitalis Institute. I saw to both you and your sister.” Her eyes squeezed shut, the next words tumbling out in a rush. “I did not know what Nicolescu's true purpose was; when I did, I sought to free you both. _Please believe me. _I know what you are, and I wish only to help, to help both of you. _Please._” She opened her eyes, looking up at Michelle with a stark, entreating gaze. “Please. Leave and go to Rebecca and ask her if what I say is the truth. Take me with you, take me hostage. Or I will meet you any place that you wish. You may come into my home. _Please. _I mean you no harm. _I swear it._”

  
  


Michelle's throat closed, as tightly as if she were the one who had been throttled. She remembered so little of that dim, dark time before Radu had come to set her free, the last savior she had ever expected. It made no sense at all—but it made _perfect _sense. She didn't know this woman, had never seen her before in her life—unlife—but she knew... how else could she _know?_ Even if it were a trick, even if someone had somehow found out enough to make her believe... who would _dare? _Who would dare stand before her, pulling her from a fight for her life to insist that they meant no harm, except for someone who thought they were telling the truth? “You have a funny way of showing it,” she rasped, forcing it past the lump in her throat.

  
  


“I don't—this has been a mistake, I believe, a _mistake_. We must ask him when he awakes. I—I c-can't stop you fighting--” The good doctor's voice finally broke; her eyes flicked miserably between the two of them, her concern for the fallen aggressor evident. “If you wish, you—but if you would only speak to each other, I most truly believe you will find yourselves more in accord than opposition.” She pressed her lips together, seeming to steady herself. “We have been corresponding, since—long before. He was coming to the Institute, to seek Nicolescu's cure... he did not know what had become of us. None of us know.” She looked up at Michelle, pushing her long, ragged bangs away from her face; her features might have been patrician, had the evidence of too little sleep and too many missed meals not been so glaringly evident. “Please, may I see to him? You may go if you wish—it is not for me to bid you go or stay, but—please.”

  
  


“He'll go for your throat.”

  
  


“No.” Michelle whirled around at the jagged sound, bringing the point to bear on the crumpled figure. “I'm not quite so... ill-bred.” Slowly, painfully, he hoisted himself up on his elbows; the movement was enough to wrest a wracking, liquid coughing fit from him; the fist he had raised to his mouth came away spattered with blood. “Even if I have a... funny way of showing it.”

  
  


That voice: hoarse and strained though it was, she recognized that smooth, laconic accent. “You're that—you were at the club last night!” Even after the beating he'd taken, he looked much improved from their initial meeting; though still thin and painfully drawn, he had lost the spectre of putrefaction he'd carried with him. He'd gotten a meal in somewhere, she guessed angrily; just enough to give him the energy to assault random--

  
  


“And you're one of Ash's painted harpies,” he replied. He hitched himself backwards, raising himself high enough to rest his head against the wall behind him. “You'd best do whatever you're going to with that sword, miss, or you're going to be _very _sorry you missed your chance.” He coughed again, his head lolling.

  
  


“_Stop!_” Ana hissed. She flicked an apologetic glance at Michelle. “This is the one I told you about—she isn't one of this nest you fear!”

  
  


“They lie, doctor,” he replied tiredly. “We all lie.”

  
  


“_No!_” But the gaze she turned toward Michelle was warier, perhaps trying to assess whether or not she'd decided to make the best of a bad lot. “_I _trust her; I know some of what she has endured. How can you not, when she has spared you even after you have attacked her thus? You spoke of the darkness blinding your kind; do not let your hatred do the same.” She returned her attention to Michelle. “_Please.”_

  
  


“Then what was she doing there?”

  
  
  
  


“I don't answer to you!” Michelle snarled, the absurdity of the exchange finally overwhelming her. “_Or _you! What the—what is _wrong _with you?” she demanded, shamed by the way her voice cracked. “You—you—” The hand holding the sword jerked; was Cassandra dead? Merely injured? She didn't know which outcome she hoped for. “And you—you—I don't know what you think you're doing...” she trailed off helplessly. She ought to kill him, kill them both; this was too much, too sudden, too _strange. _But she couldn't bring herself to cold-blooded butchery; but she didn't dare run, not with these unpredictable strangers thrown into the mix.

  
  


“How is Rebecca?” Ana asked quietly.

  
  


“She's _dead._”

  
  


The doctor's head jerked up; her eyes were liquid, shining with sudden tears. “I am so, so sorry.” Before Michelle could react, she reached up and laid a hand on the fist that gripped the sword. That warm, living touch against her ice-cold flesh, a simple, _human _gesture of empathy, was enough to undo her; she wrenched away, gagging on a rough, choking sob.

  
  


She turned away, covering her face with her free hand, the ridiculousness of crying in front of someone who had just done their best to murder her all too evident in her mind even as her grief swelled up to drown her once more. She clenched her jaw shut with enough force to make her teeth ache, blinking furiously to clear the tears from her eyes. She sniffled, finally, and nearly hiccuped; with one last, shuddering sigh, she thought she had mastered herself.

  
  


She opened her eyes to discover that the other vampire had gained his feet while she wallowed in her misery and was far, far too close. Hauling the sword up with a sudden jolt of fear, she jabbed it at him awkwardly; he fell back a step, his jacket scraping against the wall, and while he did not offer any sign of supplication, neither did he move to attack her.

  
  


“I'm sorry,” Ana repeated. “I apologize.” She cleared her throat, not quite able to meet Michelle's gaze. “I will tell you what we think we are doing here.” She shot the other vampire a quelling glance. “I know you are very tired of questions, and that I truly have no right to them, but first I must ask: _do _you know Ash?”

  
  


“Yes!” Michelle sputtered. “Yes, I know Ash. That was one of his 'painted harpies.'” She couldn't resist curling her lip in anger. “That's where I'm trying to _leave._”

  
  


Ana gave her companion a triumphant look. “You are not so alone as you thought,” she said. “This is Zachary,” she said, her accent giving the name a biting, exotic lilt. “He is... we are...” She shook her head, as if unable to gather her thoughts. _ “Tell _her.”

  
  


Zachary remained silent, his jaw tense, for long enough that she thought he meant to remain so; when he moved, it was with the eerie, nearly unwatchable grace of the undead. By the time she reacted, hastily cocking the sword over her shoulder as if she were readying a baseball bat to swing, he had already plucked something from the breast pocket of his heavy overcoat and proffered it to her. He bent at the waist, practically leaning his shoulder against the blade; his eyes, burning with hectic fury, never left hers. Sightlessly, she groped for whatever it was he held out for her, and seized at the softness; he held her gaze for one more awful moment before he retreated, stepping back out of range.

  
  


She fell back herself, looking down to see what it was she had taken. It was a handkerchief, worn thin and nubby with use, its original colors rendered indistinguishable from time. She looked up at him dubiously, her fingers working at the scrap of fabric; she looked down once more as they encountered a rough patch. Dark and crusted, it could only be a blood stain.

  
  


Regarding him even more dubiously, she raised it to her face, taking a cursory sniff; it was blood, but she could determine nothing special about it. Zachary seemed to take that as his cue. “Sofia Christopher is an American concert pianist.” His tone was stiff and pedantic, as if he were reading from a program. “Like most true artists, she is practically unknown in her homeland, but she was fortunate enough to enjoy a measure of success in Italy; success enough that she was invited to perform with the Bucharest Symphony.” He nodded to the handkerchief. “She suffers an unfortunate tendency towards... epistaxis.”

  
  


“Most guys stick to stealing panties,” she snapped.

  
  


Zachary's lips peeled back in what might, charitably, have been called a smile, revealing straight ivory fangs beside his canines, but there was no mistaking the utter loathing that blazed in his eyes. “If only your friend Ash was so restrained. He's something of a connoisseur, as I'm sure you know. Artists, musicians, performers... it's something in the blood, he thinks. Something he wants. And he wants her.”

  
  


“He's got her,” she whispered, realization dawning too late.

  
  


“You've _seen _her?” Ana interrupted excitedly. “She's _alive?_”

  
  


“I— ” Michelle shook her head, dazed. “I... think so. I heard her crying, I think, before I left tonight.” She wasn't sure she'd ever forget the sound of those pitiful sobs.

  
  


“He likes to play with his food,” Zachary said dryly. “What about it, Miss Morgan? Is it true what they say about _creative juices?_”

  
  


“Shut _up!_” Michelle snarled, rounding on him; he straightened, but didn't flinch. “I didn't—I _wouldn't—_what is this all about, anyway?”

  
  


“Oh, just cleaning out some vermin. Nothing to trouble yourself with.” Zachary skinned his teeth once more. “Just yet.”

  
  


“_Stop it!” _Ana cried. “But this is—would he truly keep her, do you think? Not to bite yet? Oh, but if he hasn't--”

  
  


“I think he—Radu said—I think he has.” _As safe as you are. _She shook her head to clear the raspy voice of memory from her thoughts. “And where do you come into this?” Michelle asked. “Are you some kind of—of—_social worker_?”

  
  


The doctor clasped her hands, her breath steaming in the cold air. “Michelle, I am familiar with the details of your own experiences, and wish nothing more to prevent those from ever befalling another person. But.” She pressed her hands together in an attitude of prayer, the fog from her sigh curling around her head like a halo. “You know—you may know—that our main course of study at the Institute was the particulars and peculiarities of your own unique condition.” She nodded to both Michelle and Zachary in turn. “We were never successful in isolating its true nature; the samples were so very limited, mostly from the doctor himself, who became... less... sterile, as time went on.” She closed her eyes for a brief moment, swallowing thickly. Michelle felt a prickle of unease at the sight. The doctor had handled herself very well thus far, considering; if whatever she was about to say made her that nervous, Michelle wasn't certain she wanted to hear it.

  
  


“But it is a virus; I believe it to be a retrovirus. At death, when the—the protein decays, and the transcription is able to--” She shook her head, as if frustrated with herself. “I do not think it matters so much if she is bitten, if she can be safe until I can... I think there is time,” she finished worriedly.

  
  


“Time for what?”

  
  


Ana looked up at her, meeting her gaze steadily. “To cure her.”

  
  


Michelle stared at her, dumbfounded; Zachary straightened, pushing himself erect against the wall. Ana continued hurriedly, as if to stave off any objections. “The data is very incomplete, but it is above all _consistent. _If only we knew the whole of the genome, I might be able to aid you, you and all your kind, _now. _But if she is only infected, and her well-being is preserved—if I can observe the virus in the context of healthy, human blood—if nothing else, the data would be invaluable.”

  
  


“Well well, doctor,” Zachary said quietly. “The _data _is a young lady not too different from yourself, if you'll recall.”

  
  


Ana surged to her feet, startling Michelle enough to fall back a step. “_You!_” she cried, thrusting a finger at Zachary; he blinked, bemused. “Did you think I was making it up? Of _course _she is invaluable in her own self—the most precious thing of all! But I am not the Christ, to cure lepers with a touch—if in helping her I can help you all, _how can I not?_ I have _her _on my conscience,” she said, with a sharp gesture at Michelle, “her sister, the boy...” She threw her hands up. “It's a disease,” she said unsteadily. “It's _only a disease_.” She raised a hand to her forehead, as if exhausted. “Help her. Help me help you. If I were able to do it on my own, I would have done it by now.”

  
  


Michelle's innards twisted with nausea and fear... and a gnawing, sizzling urge to _believe. _It was far, far too good to be true... Rebecca had believed in that idea, and look where it had gotten them. This was one of Nicolescu's dupes, prating of yet more experimentation.

  
  


But this _mortal_, this living, human woman, believed it so passionately that she dared to step between two battling monsters and preach it to them; to _beleaguer _them with it, challenging them to remember what it was like to be alive; to care; to _hope. _She didn't promise freedom or an easy fix; she only offered a chance... a chance for salvation, for them, and for one frightened, hurt woman, caught in a nightmare too horrific to be anything but real.

  
  


Did the doctor want the Bloodstone? Probably... if she even knew what it was. Did she want test subjects? Indubitably. But there was no chicanery here, no duress, no extortion; simply statements, facts, and her own acknowledged suppositions.

  
  


And there was Sofia Christopher, weeping alone in a vampire's lair.

  
  


Rape. Violence. Death. Without even the scant comfort of oblivion to look forward to.

  
  


She worried at her lip, half-hoping that Zachary would have something obnoxious to say, anything to relieve that pregnant, poised moment.

  
  


She couldn't bear it any longer. “Where do I come in?”

  
  


“At the mouth of the alley.” Ana flapped her hands in annoyance, then immediately caught herself, giving Michelle a look of apology. “I'm sorry, I...” She reached up to shove her loose blond bangs out of her eyes. “I had almost given up hope of finding you. I had hoped... you had returned home. Please understand, I am sorry to see you here.” Michelle nodded. “I have a flat nearby. It is scarcely a surgery... Zachary was going to return with her...”

  
  


Michelle turned to look at Zachary expectantly, but he did not seem inclined to elaborate; he watched her, arms folded, disdain in every line of his form. “You came right to the door last night,” she said. He nodded. “You were going to... what? March in there and start chopping people up?”

  
  


A corner of his lip lifted. “Yes.”

  
  


She tightened her grip on the sword, unable to believe that he was serious. “That didn't work out so well.”

  
  


He shrugged, seemingly unperturbed. “I find little profit in skulduggery.”

  
  


“Are you going to keep turning up until he agrees to see you?” She couldn't keep the disbelief from her voice. “There's at least three of them. Ash, Dmitri, Anton... Cassandra...” She felt a pang of uncertainty. “And Radu. And me.” She laughed bitterly.

  
  


“No.”

  
  


She looked at Zachary, startled by that flat denial. “What?”

  
  


He shook his head, turning to address Ana. “You may be able to corroborate certain aspects of her story, doctor, but we have now certainly taken the plunge into fiction.” He snorted. “_Radu._”

  
  


Ana looked troubled, her gaze darting back and forth between them. “The Vladislas has pursued her for—it is what drove her sister to seek my aid.”

  
  


“With an army of momeraths and snarks at her heels, I'm sure.” He glared at Michelle, his voice so tight with fury it seemed as if he bit the words. “It is a _myth. _A penny dreadful, a fairy story. The bleeding shadow, the claws that crawl, the magic rock... there's supposed to be five of them, hell-devils. Or are you supposed to be the witch?” He looked her up and down, sneering. “I'll credit that whatever spawned you might be a nasty piece of work, but do grant me a little intelligence in return.”

  
  


Her tongue seemed fastened to the roof of her mouth; the jeering, unadulterated disbelief was more than she was prepared to deal with. Was she supposed to summon a subspecies to prove her claim? It was almost enough to make her laugh; it was not an association she had ever thought she'd need to acknowledge. But to hear her pain, her bondage, dismissed as some sort of grab for legitimacy...

  
  


_Disbelief._

  
  


She couldn't believe she hadn't realized it sooner.

  
  


“Fairy stories,” she said evenly. “I've heard one, too. They call him the Pilgrim. Nobody's ever seen him and lived to tell of it—funny how that works, isn't it—but he kills vampires. A trail of corpses in his wake. Someone to watch over your shoulder for. Someone to hope might come along and set you free.” She straightened, throwing her shoulders back, and met his hooded eyes. “I didn't believe it, either... and I think I'd prefer he didn't exist, to finding out that he's someone stupid enough to throw his life away because he's too arrogant to see what's in front of him.” She finally lowered the sword, planting its tip on the stone beneath her feet. “But if that's how you want your story to end, I'm not going to stop you.”

  
  


He shifted slightly, laying a finger against his chin. Ana's expression grew ever more worried, but she said nothing, perhaps not daring to interfere.

  
  


“...I expect the part about the fire-breathing is exaggeration,” he said finally. “I certainly can't walk on water.”

  
  


Michelle snorted out a laugh. “I think so. I've never seen him do it.” But the Vitalis Institute had burned to its foundations. “He does... sorcery. Things I've never... I don't think the rest of us can do. I don't know how far it goes.”

  
  


“And how is it that you come to be so well acquainted?”

  
  


Her smile was thin and feral. “He's a nasty piece of work.”

  
  


Zachary straightened, raising his head; he pushed himself off the wall. Michelle tensed, her hands tightening on the hilt of the sword, but he made no further movement. “My sire was Serena,” he said mildly. “I slew her first of all.”

  
  


“_Serena?_” She gripped the sword even more tightly, the ridges of its hilt digging into her palms. “But--” She shook her head. “They've been looking for her.”

  
  


“I'll be happy to arrange a meeting.”

  
  


She looked down at the sword; the tawdry gold fixtures, what it had done to Cassandra... “This is it, isn't it?” she asked, awed. “Laertes—this is that sword! She stole it, didn't she?”

  
  


Zachary shrugged. “I've found it useful.”

  
  


Radu left Bucharest with Serena and the sword... Serena took the sword and left Radu for parts unknown, somewhere along the way producing Zachary... it fit, she supposed, for what little good it did her. “They're going to be furious.”

  
  


“And how do you propose I contend with that? As you seem so well informed.”

  
  


She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud; she pressed her lips together at the interruption, shaking her head sharply. It came to her so clearly and sharply that it was almost as if she was remembering something that had already happened; her throat closed as if she were about to vomit. It was horrible. It was the worst thing she could possibly do. She _couldn't _do it.

  
  


Sofia. A lamb strayed farther from the flock than she could ever have imagined was possible, who now found herself surrounded by grinning, slavering wolves. It would be so much easier to howl with the pack...

  
  


“Michelle?” Ana asked softly. “What are you thinking of?”

  
  


“Sheepdogs.”

  
  


“Lovely,” Zachary said.

  
  


She stared at him; this gaunt, scarecrow figure, vicious and bitter and no friend of hers. _If I look back, I am lost. _“If you're lying,” she said, “if you're even _wrong_, I'm dead. Do you understand that? Are you completely, utterly clear on that?”

  
  


“If you're lying,” he replied easily, “you most certainly will be dead, Miss Morgan.”

  
  


A hateful, miserable stranger.

  
  


The only other vampire she'd met that seemed to give a damn about what happened to the living.

  
  


She hefted the sword, feeling its balanced, heavy weight. Not as good as the Bloodstone, no, but there were worse things she could have at her side, alone in the dark. Tempting; very tempting. She hoisted it up and, moving as quickly as she could, buried its point between two of the cobblestones. When she was sure it would remain upright—the space of a blink—she stepped away, ostentatiously placing herself outside of reach. “I got that from you pretty easily,” she said.

  
  


Zachary eyed her warily, not moving to take it. “You won't the next time.”

  
  


“You know what? I hope you're right. I really do.” She raised a hand to cover her eyes, rubbing at her temples. If she didn't say it, it wouldn't be real; wouldn't be true; wouldn't have to be done. “Do you really think you can handle Ash? Two, three of his... brood?”

  
  


He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

  
  


“Then what I propose is that you don't try to contend with him at all.” She squeezed her eyes shut._ No, no, no._ “I can keep him busy.”

  
  


Zachary cocked his head, for once seeming intrigued, and took a step closer; Ana hurried to her side, an eager look on her face.

  
  


They both listened intently, as she began to damn herself.


	7. Chapter 7

Michelle hurtled through the darkness, transient and intransigent. They had believed her; they believed _in _her. It was more than she could say for herself; more than she had been able to say for anyone since this twisted, maddening descent into the realms of torment had begun.

  
  


Unless one counted Radu, she told herself grimly. She'd spent too long flinching away from the harsh truths of her existence. Looked at as a whole, it was enough to break a stronger mind than hers; but if she took in little sips, looked at things in neat little cross-sections, moved carefully from one small part of it to the next, she was able to endure.

  
  


And look where that had gotten her. Even Radu, with his crazed designs on her future—whatever unknowable role he expected her to fill that he seemed to value far higher than her grudging, unwilling companionship—he had grown worried enough to doubt. It was why he'd arranged this little field-trip, after all; he'd expected her to wash away her worries in the blood of a less favored offspring.

  
  


Offspring. As much as the thought made her cringe with revulsion, he was a parent—_her _parent—as far as such things went; perhaps she was finally beginning to take after him.

  
  


Short little sips, like the ones she'd taken from a glass of blood, filled by some hopeless wretch so low in the world that Club Muse seemed like a good option.

  
  


Neat little cross-sections, like the gobbets of flesh that depended from the torn throats of the people she'd murdered.

  
  


Small little parts, like transitioning from being a free-range serial killer into a full-fledged member of a nest of vipers to rival Sawney Beane's tribe.

  
  


She wondered what they did with the bodies; surely Ash would never be so gauche as to welcome a well-gnawed hooker into his august brood. What happened to them once they were past their prime? What happened to the ones who grew tired of their service? What had happened to the woman from last night, whose wrist Michelle had savaged so badly it was sure to end up gruesomely scarred?

  
  


_I may have killed her_, Michelle thought, making herself roll the words around in her skull. _She might not know it yet, but she may have reached the end of her useful life._

  
  


Streetlamps, neon signs, traffic lights, all seemed to strobe as she lanced past them, flickers of light stabbing into her eyes. What _passed _for her eyes; there was no earthly explanation for what she was now. She wasn't a human; she wasn't even physical, at the moment. She wasn't alive. She wasn't a person.

  
  


Cannibalism. She'd been preying on what she thought was her own kind for quite a while now. Perhaps it was a practice to carry away with her. She wondered if that was why Zachary looked so ghastly.

  
  


_I didn't even know what I was doing. I didn't bother to find out._ Even now, she was willing to excuse, if not forgive, the horrible rebirth of the all too human monster Radu had made her catch for herself. She had been overwhelmed; it had been too new, too much; he had _damn well deserved it._ For the very first time, she truly felt comfortable making that kind of judgment, despite the fact she'd already made it more than a dozen times. Drunk drivers killed people every day, and went on to lead happy and prosperous lives; she had least had some input into her choices.

  
  


But the man with those luscious black curls... oh, his leather jacket had suited him so much better than hospital scrubs. The kind of man she might have eyed surreptitiously in her former life, but would never, ever have had the nerve to actually approach. She'd been hungry, scared, _starving_... but it had been just a little bit heady, too, hadn't it? He'd looked at her. He'd _seen _her. He'd been just as interested. And she'd taken advantage of it.

  
  


And she had puked. No more hand-wringing, no more self-justification. She had murdered that man, simply because he'd caught her eye; sentenced him to God only knew what kind of afterlife, stumbling through the warrens of Bucharest until Nicolescu had found him and turned him to whatever unimaginable purposes he might have had... and she had not even gotten any use out of it.

  
  


A waste. A flagrant, worthless, futile _waste._

  
  


Just like Mel. If she ever doubted that there were truly good people in the world, she had that twisted, blackened medallion to remind her of just how wrong she was. She didn't know what his real story was. She'd _never _know, because he'd been moved to help a scared, confused woman, far beyond the reach of his duties as an attache, but it had given him the skills and the steadfastness to stick by her side when the world as they knew it began to crumble around them. She was sorry he hadn't succeeded, but not for herself; a man with a heart that great deserved a happy, heroic ending, deserved all the accolades the world could give him. He hadn't failed; he'd only been outmaneuvered.

  
  


And that scared, confused woman, the one she'd murdered with her bare hands... oh, _Becky. _What a pretty pass things had come to when the most ardent hope in Michelle's heart was that she truly had been insane beyond understanding, at the end. All the murders, all the grief, all the misery... placing the phone call that had brought her charging across the ocean remained the single worst thing Michelle had ever done. It had been the only thing she could think to do... but even then, she had known that this was far more serious than needing things smoothed over with their mother, than needing help moving out when her roommate skipped town and stuck her with the lease, than any of the countless, myriad things Rebecca had done for her over the years. It was second nature. Becky would fix it. Becky could fix anything.

  
  


Had Michelle finally been able to render her a useful service—one last favor to pay for all? She thought so. She hoped so. She could not picture what having Becky stalking at her side would be like. It was disgusting; _obscene_. Becky had been a woman of rationality; of logic; of succor, not harm. But Michelle hadn't given her the chance to decide, had she? Would Becky have figured out some way to make the best of things?

  
  


What would she say about what Michelle was up to now?

  
  


_No. You can't. _Simple; and exactly why Michelle had ended things before Becky had been forced to endure decisions like this. Perhaps it had been more for her own benefit than Rebecca's. It was done, regardless.

  
  


She was getting close now, close enough that she needed to start getting her thoughts in order. Never mind that none of the stories she could think of quite made sense; perhaps hysteria and panic would carry the day. Perhaps she could pretend to faint; the manners of another era might protect her from her own iniquity. But her mind blazed, for once alight with the purity of her own thoughts, clear and unencumbered for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. Grief, revulsion, and self-loathing were things she would carry with her to the end of her days, but she could no longer allow herself the luxury of using them as shields. This was what passed for _her life_; she could no longer pretend it was too horrific to contemplate. And there was one last thing she needed to get right with herself.

  
  


_He raped me. _She felt no internal roil of anger, shame, and loathing, the likes of which had pushed the memory from her mind; she was merely recalling a fact. She tried again. _I am a rape victim._ Still nothing. She was, in her own way, pleased; she may have become so broken that such a thing no longer had much power over her, but the mere thought was no longer a lash to score her soul. And in the grand scheme of things, did it really amount to all that much? He had murdered the man she loved—had murdered _her_; had brought about the deaths of Mel and Becky; had driven her to slaughters of her own; had damned her to a half-life as a thing out of nightmares... out of all the things she had to hate him for, did that really merit a place at the top of the list?

  
  


She knew, on some level, how insane her line of thought had become; knew that she was probably going to pay for it later, if there was a later for her. But in her current state of cold, analytical ferocity, it was almost enough to make her laugh. Priorities. Yes, indeed.

  
  


_Squared away_, she thought dimly... or at least numb enough to do what needed to be done. She simply could not let her resolve falter.

  
  


So. She had been out with Cassandra when they had been set upon by Zachary—the Pilgrim—or would that be laying it on too thick? Radu had been there when Cassandra had brought it up, so it was not unreasonable to assume that she had filled Michelle in on the details, but...

  
  


She had been out with Cassandra when they had been set upon by a man with a sword, who attacked Cassandra. She did not know what had become of Cassandra; Cassandra had dissolved, but Michelle thought she was dead. She wasn't certain because the man had immediately attacked her; she had managed to flee, but he had chased her long and hard, and she had spent all this time trying to get away.

  
  


Had she managed to lose him, or could he be right behind her? Probably the latter was best. Or had he simply shouted threats at her? Was his interest in Sofia, Ash, or was his vendetta with Club Muse in general? Ash would certainly take it personally, regardless of what flavoring she added, but widespread paranoia might prove useful... or utterly uncontrollable.

  
  


Of course, it could all be for nothing; she simply had no idea how far their extrasensory awareness went. A human couldn't lie to her the way she was planning to lie to them—not if she were trying to catch them at it—and Radu certainly seemed to have an alarming level of insight into her feelings... but they shared a special bond, didn't they? She could not quite drive the memory of the strange, crawling headache Ash had given her from her thoughts. Had that been because he was rummaging around in her thoughts, or only trying to? Perhaps he'd simply wanted to give her a headache.

  
  


She didn't _know. _She was frightened and anxious enough that she thought she could pass as a horrified witness to violence well enough on a cursory inspection, but...

  
  


It would have to be enough.

  
  


It was almost show time.

  
  


She slowed as she arrived at the end of the street that held Club Muse, slinking along more sedately, wondering how best to make her entrance. Should she whirl in as she was, scaring the wits out of any patrons that happened to be present as a way of underscoring just how terrified she was? It would certainly make a point... but it might cause unnecessary complications. Her wits were frayed enough as it was; best not to have one more thing to worry about handling.

  
  


Darting into an alley, she manifested herself out of a deeper pool of shadow. She took a deep breath and regretted it as the stench of garbage assaulted her nostrils. She had meant to stop for a moment and gather her thoughts, but she took the unpleasantness as a goad. Grabbing a handful of her skirts, she took off for the club entrance as fast as her tattered flats would carry her.

  
  


She mounted the steps in a single bound, skittering across the short porch and slamming into the door hard enough to rattle it in its frame, surely startling the attendants within. Not giving them time to react, she hauled on the knob and wrenched the door open, hurtling herself inside.

  
  


Their faces told the whole story; whatever she looked like, with her hair wild and her garments in disarray—she had been happy to discover the missing buttons, the sleeves split at the armpits after her scuffle; verisimilitude—it was enough to win startled expressions from men who had certainly seen more than their fair share of oddities during the tenure of their service. One of them shot a helpless look at the other, his mouth opening and closing as if speech were beyond him.

  
  


Deciding that she might as well begin with them, she clasped her hands in her best imitation of Cassandra's fretful wringing, molding her features into what was hopefully a suitably piteous expression while she struggled with what to say.

  
  


“Oh, thank _God!_” Michelle whirled at the sound, sinking into a defensive crouch; the movement was feral enough to stop even Iris in her tracks for a moment. Gathering herself, a strange, tense expression on her face, she continued to hurry down the stairs. “It's so good to see you back—I was just checking the—but I think they're already out looking for you,” Iris said, an exaggerated frown of worry on her face. “I just _wish _I could get one of them to carry a beeper--”

  
  


“_What?_” Michelle couldn't keep the shock from her voice; this wasn't how it was supposed to go. _How did they know? _She was sure Radu could find Zachary, if he wished, no matter where he was hiding; if Radu got his hands on him, on the doctor... no, no, no. “But who—where--”

  
  


“Come along, dear,” Iris said with saccharine sweetness; she reached out as if to take Michelle by the elbow, but seemed to think better of it. “I think we'd better get you below, so you can rest yourself enough to tell us all about it.”

  
  


Michelle gaped at her, her brain unable to process the startling new direction events had taken. Iris merely bobbed her head, gesturing vaguely at the doors. Michelle let her shepherd her toward them, hoping that she was not going placidly towards her own execution.

  
  


The shock of the club's noise level was, for once, nearly bracing; it snapped her out of her panicked, frozen terror enough to think, as they hurriedly cut their way through the crowd. The game was over before it had even begun, but how much of it might prove salvageable? She'd tried not to pin her plans too firmly on a particular story precisely because she knew she'd needed the freedom to improvise, with the aid of some petrified, woeful stuttering to give her a chance to think. _Fainting, _she thought, and shivered; she did not want to find out what Radu's alternative to smelling salts might be.

  
  


_They're already out looking for you_. Oh, God. How stupid had she really been? Had she discounted the potence of whatever bizarre form of telepathy they possessed that easily? If Radu really knew exactly what she'd been thinking all along... the thought was too horrible to be borne. But, wait, think: the first kill after she'd come back. That night in the library. Their walk here... if he was merely pretending, rather than genuinely misinterpreting her, he was doing an incredible job of it.

  
  


He'd had centuries to practice. But _why?_ He typically behaved fairly logically, if one set morals and human feeling aside.

  
  


_I can feel your hunger..._ What if it was only that? What if he merely knew how scared she'd been when Zachary first attacked her? Oh, God, let it be true.

  
  


_I am scared, _she thought. _I am scared, I am frightened, I am terrified, I am nearly out of my wits._ She put as much effort as she could into the act; not difficult, as it was all absolutely true. She just hoped ardently that any potential listeners would be unable to fathom why.

  
  


Because even if she was able to talk her way out of it, she had just thrown Zachary, Sofia and Ana to the dogs.

  
  


_No, no, no. I am scared, I am frightened, I am terrified. _

  
  


She barely saw the crowd as they pushed their way through, scarcely noticed the irritated snarls of the men she shouldered aside. She'd managed to pull away from Iris; if there was a secret and more convenient way to the lairs, she hadn't been intending to use it. She hurried for the entrance, almost unable to stop; whatever was about to happen needed to _happen_ and relieve the awful, gnawing tension within her. Yet as she passed the doorway to the dim bar that housed the Oracle, she was overcome by a frisson of dread so awful that she nearly tripped over her own feet.

  
  


_She told. She knew and she told._ She made herself start walking again, her hands balled into fists. No. No, no, no. The Oracle was a fraud and a scam artist... and, even if she wasn't, Michelle was damn well going to act like it. She herself had hinted that she and Radu had once been intimate; she was jealous, she was making up lies, she was angry that Radu had chosen Michelle over her.

  
  


It sounded so very childish. Oh, God.

  
  


Iris had caught up to her, moving much more quickly than Michelle could have done in heels that high; she fell into step beside her easily enough. “I don't think there's anything you can do...” she began nervously.

  
  


Michelle stopped dead in her tracks, her jaw clenching and her spine stiffening. Even if it was all for nothing, even if she had just destroyed a handful of lives, she was _not _going to be taunted about it by this... this... “_Where are they?_” she snapped. “Where _were _they?” Iris fell back a step before the sudden onslaught; Michelle stifled the urge to grab her and shake her. “Ash's lair?”

  
  


Iris nodded uncertainly, which was all the confirmation Michelle needed; she spun on her heel, heading for the entrance as fast as she could, not caring who saw or what they thought of it. _I came back as soon as I could. I came right back to where I saw you last, and I'm so, so scared..._

  
  


She wrenched the doors open, bunching her skirts to run down the stairs without bothering to shut the door behind her; a curious patron wandering into forbidding territory might provide a useful bit of distraction.

  
  


Charging down the hallway on the second floor was nerve-wracking; it was all she could do to hold herself together, to refrain from slicing through the space, but she needed her hands for the doors. _I should have told him that,_ she thought as she tumbled into the last stairwell. _He's going to get us all killed because he'll think he can whisk himself to safety._

  
  


_I am scared, I am frightened, I am petrified. _

  
  


The beauties of Ash's abode were less than nothing to her as she hurried past them, her arms pumping as she ran. The sounds of her soft soles on the marble tiles were as loud as rifle cracks. _But she said they were _gone, she thought despairingly. _Do I wait? I have to wait—but-- _ The idea of sitting at that long, elegant table, twiddling her thumbs while Zachary and Ana were torn to pieces, while awaiting her turn--

  
  


The long, low wail that echoed down the narrow hallway was nearly enough to win an answering scream from her. Her eyes hazed into tunnel vision as the sound tore through her; hopeless, heart-wrenching and _horrible_. _Sofia. _Ash had decided not to wait—even now he was—_maybe I can kill her_, Michelle thought frantically, as she raced toward the sound with a speed she had not known she possessed.

  
  


The double-doors at the end of the hall were as firmly and oppressively locked as they had been earlier in the evening; she wondered if she could smash through them if she kept running—but no; the door that led to the audience chamber was open a crack. Skidding to a halt, the carpet bunching precariously beneath, she flung it open hard enough to crack the plaster as it slammed against the wall. Gaining her balance, she hurled herself through, ready to burst through the sliding doors, but they too had been left open. She stumbled to a halt, nearly slamming into the end of the table and rattling its place settings.

  
  


Dmitri stood at the other end of the room, shock writ large across his features. A crumpled form lay at his feet.

  
  


Ash and Radu knelt on opposite sides of it.

  
  


_I can't fight them, _she thought, _I can't, I won't, I—oh God--_

  
  


The bundle of cloth stirred.

  
  


Radu was on his feet, faster than the eye could follow; a moment later he was before her, too close, too near, his hand on her face, cupping her chin to raise her face and look at her. “Forgive me,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut; hoping against hope that it would happen quickly, mercy or rage getting the best of him.

  
  


His thumb brushed her lips.

  
  


“There were meant to be three of them,” he rumbled.

  
  


“This is an outrageous reaction to a _misunderstanding._” Her eyes flew open. For the first time, Ash's tone was something other than smooth and pleasant; the fury and pain in his voice were enough to make her flinch.

  
  


“Are you well?” Radu asked her, as if he hadn't heard; he grabbed her wrists, turning her hands palm upright. “Were you harmed?” She stared at him, dumbfounded. “_Show me._” He wrenched her towards him, bony fingers digging painfully in her flesh; she shook her head frantically, utterly at a loss.

  
  


“No,” she gasped, “no, I—I ran—it was one of us--”

  
  


“Do you mean me to believe that _you _did _this_?” Ash's hiss was razorblades and talons; his blue eyes were alight with searing, unending hatred. “I have never seen its like--”

  
  


“Truly?” Radu asked, not bothering to turn to look at him; he cocked his head, peering at her as he raised a hand to brush her cheek lightly with the tips of his nails.

  
  


Ash surged to his feet, looking as if he meant to lunge for Radu, but even in the grip of such consuming anger did not quite dare. “This is—_disgraceful_,” he spat, flexing his fingers. “_Insupportable. _How can--”

  
  


“Someone,” Radu said, “has found the sword.”

  
  


Michelle could not restrain a whimper; she was lost. They all were. Her eyes burned; it was all she could do to remain upright.

  
  


There was an answering whimper from Sofia.

  
  


No. No there wasn't. She peered at the small, still form on the floor, struggling to make her eyes focus. A pile of black fabric—she couldn't remember how the woman had been dressed—but those sticky, jutting spikes... that was fur.

  
  


She made another noise—a strangled, choking cry that might have been a sob. _Cassandra. _She'd made it home. The bright steel jutting from above her breasts, the gruesome, oily slowness of her dissolution... it must have been like crawling on broken glass.

  
  


She wanted to cry. She wanted to cheer. She wanted... oh, she wanted...

  
  


“Who?” Radu asked her quietly. Dazed, she could not answer. He took her by the elbow and shook her roughly. “Who?” he repeated, just as calmly.

  
  


“I don't--” She coughed and swallowed thickly, trying to clear her thoughts enough to speak. “A man, a—like us,” she stammered. “He stabbed her, and she—she _melted—_I flew, and he—I thought she was _dead,_” she cried, her voice finally breaking on a sob that was much more honest than she would have thought possible.

  
  


“_If only,_” Ash snarled, guttural and hoarse. He turned away, folding his arms and raising a hand to his chin.

  
  


She couldn't bear it any longer. Pulling herself free of Radu's grip, she hurried to Cassandra's side—knowing a spine-tingling moment of dread as she realized she was giving Ash her back—and fell to her knees beside her. Dmitri leapt back as her skirts pooled around her; Michelle grabbed at them roughly to keep them from falling on Cassandra.

  
  


She looked... normal. Michelle had a bad moment while she instinctively watched for the rise and fall of Cassandra's chest, before remembering it didn't matter. But her eyes were open, liquid and shining in the diffuse light; they jogged back and forth as if she were dreaming, but she seemed to take no notice of Michelle, or anything around her. Her expression was slightly strained, but not the twisted mask Michelle had half-expected; she might simply have been deeply lost in thought, having chosen to sprawl before the cold fireplace.

  
  


Until one looked beneath her shoulders.

  
  


The neckline of her dress had been ripped apart, nearly exposing her breasts; but even with her sharp memory of the blade protruding beneath her breastbone, Michelle could not identify the wound. She could scarcely tell what she was looking at. Her gorge rose as images flashed through her mind—the package of hamburger she'd forgotten in the back of the fridge before she'd left for a month—the time the family dog had gotten pyometra—her grandfather's legs, as he lay dying of diabetes—none of it, _nothing _compared to what lay before her now. She clapped a hand over her mouth, not sure if she was trying to hold back bile or ward off—_something. _ She could only be grateful she didn't have to smell it.

  
  


It was _black_, and it had spread... her arm... Tar, oil, cancer, ancient flesh returning to its proper state of decay in a hurry—she didn't _know_, but she made herself stare at it unblinkingly. She'd sworn she would sacrifice no innocents, and perhaps she hadn't—but this had been the cost of her meeting with Ana and Zachary. This obscenity, this putrescence, this _rot._

  
  


This dying. Nothing could look like this and live. Not even Radu. She hugged herself tightly, cupping her elbows with her palms. She didn't realize that she had begun to gently rock back and forth. They left her on the floor. They couldn't even lay her on the table--

  
  


“I must _commend you _for your _tender care _of her.” Ash's voice was almost under control; it vibrated with loathing, and he wielded it like a whip. “If only _all of my guests _extended such _generous thanks _for my _hospitality_\--”

  
  


“There were supposed to be three of us.” She didn't realize she was going to say it until the words left her lips; but now that they had, she had to own them. She only had an inkling of what was truly happening here—little could penetrate beyond the gruesome spectacle of Cassandra's martyrdom—but there was an undercurrent; of... “_Three _of us.” Dmitri cringed miserably; she didn't think for a moment his presence would have altered anything, but... “Your—_Iris _called him away. Forgive me for not wanting to disrupt your household any more than necessary—but if I had--”

  
  


“You were _meant _to _take charge _of her.” It was almost enough to make her falter; whatever these recriminations meant, he cared for her, and his grief was unmistakable. She squeezed her eyes shut against a memory of Radu whispering to her in the dark, fangs and flesh and blood and-- “You left her to be _set upon_\--”

  
  


“You never told us to be wary of him!” Ash stopped, his face going utterly still for half a second before resuming his grimace. “He was _here _last night—your—_minion _sent him away,” she snapped, struggling to put as much imperiousness into her voice as she could muster. “I thought he was a—a _client_, not a, a--”

  
  


“_What?”_

  
  


Radu's voice slashed through the room; she could hear nothing in the silence it left in its wake, but could practically feel the air moving as he paced over to stand behind her.

  
  


“The Pilgrim,” Ash said quietly. “A—prophecy.”

  
  


“The Pilgrim,” Radu repeated; his flat, disbelieving tone was such a near echo of Zachary's it was almost enough to startle a laugh from her.

  
  


She bit the inside of her lip, heedless of her fangs shredding the delicate flesh. Perhaps her earlier intuition had not been that far off; she could have sworn she felt the tension in the room ratcheting up, the air growing close and thick. This wasn't about her, she realized suddenly, not her or Cassandra or even—she ground her teeth, feeling the thick, slow blood begin to ooze. This was _prestige. _Cassandra lay dying in torment before them, and they were too concerned with their own vendetta to stop and think about why. “He looked like death,” she said softly. Cassandra would never know what a help she had proved to be.

  
  


When she felt the soft tickle against her shoulders, she flinched. Radu pressed his fingertips against her harder; even standing, his fingers were long enough to brush her. “You stand in the hall I left in your care and dare to abuse my fledgling, while you permit a villain to prowl your domain.” His voice was calm, almost meditative, most of the gravel stripped from it; the easy, casual tone that presaged utter mayhem.

  
  


Cassandra whimpered.

  
  


That small, soft noise was enough to delay, if not defuse, whatever conflict was building between the two. Radu grew utterly still; Ash turned away with a wince, as if he could not bear to look at her. Michelle leapt to her feet as Cassandra flexed convulsively, her limbs flailing; even after the titanic shudders ceased, her hands pawed at the rug, as if seeking purchase. A gout of black spurted from her, so thick it was nearly solid.

  
  


Radu gathered Michelle into his arms, pulling her gently away; she was too revolted to resist him. Every time she thought she had seen the worst her new existence had to offer, something new popped up to leer like a satanic jack-in-the-box; it seemed that the descent would be endless, that she would never know the grim satisfaction of hitting bottom.

  
  


Did Cassandra? How long could she carry on this way?

  
  


She found herself facing Ash and realized, for the first time, that one of his sleeves was undone. She could see the neat slit along his forearm, daubed lightly with blood that was already drying to a thin crust. Whatever he'd done, it hadn't been enough.

  
  


_How long could she carry on this way? _They couldn't mean to stand and watch until that fey, fragile woman was nothing more than a stinking puddle. Death could be nothing but a release for her.

  
  


Michelle wouldn't let them. If she had to go through Ash to do it—but the thought of that ropy, gelatinous flesh _stretching _beneath her hands—and the others—but she couldn't let her stay like this—

  
  


“Please,” she said, closing her eyes. “Please. You have to do something.” She let herself sag lightly against Radu, trying to marshal her strength. She didn't think the actual act would be difficult—from the looks of things, she might be able to simply grab Cassandra's chin and _pull—_but she would have to move more quickly than she was sure she was capable of doing, if either of them moved to stop her.

  
  


Radu's arms tightened around her. The silence seemed to stretch on endlessly. She wanted to sigh, if only to steady her nerves, but did not dare brave the stench. It would be simple. She only needed to drop to one knee, and—it would have to be _fast. _

  
  


His fingers brushed her bangs away from her forehead.

  
  


Her eyes opened as he turned her slowly, one arm remaining around her waist. His lips were pressed together tightly, lending his already grim features an even more stern cast. She gazed up at him, struggling to keep her expression neutral; were they going to _draw straws? _The idea of him shying away from bloodshed—of doing anything other than _delighting _in it—was so alien as to be incomprehensible.

  
  


Was Cassandra contagious?

  
  


He looked up at Ash, the angle of his head never altering. After a long moment, he rolled his eyes in that eerie, impossible movement that had so terrified her those first nights.

  
  


The movement was so slight as to be almost imperceptible. Ash nodded.

  
  


His fingers pattered lightly against her forearm, as if he were drumming them in thought; his expression had not wavered. She stared at him, willing him to move, to speak, to _act._

  
  


He kissed her.

  
  


She was so shocked that she froze, her arms half-raised as if to push him away. His lips were soft on hers, almost hesitant; he pressed her gently, coaxing her lips apart with careful, methodical insistence. Her heart sank, plummeting her into despair; he _knew, _he'd known all along, and this was... this was... was this goodbye? She gripped his wrist tightly, fighting against her rising panic, to keep from trembling, to keep her terror from--

  
  


His fangs sheared through the masticated flesh of her lower lip.

  
  


She squealed, a hoarse, agonized sound, but retained just enough self-possession to refrain from jerking her head; her lip would be ripped to shreds. The pain was sharp and fiery, bolt-holes of affliction through her lip; beneath it she could faintly sense the skin-crawling sensation of his teeth moving against her as he tightened his hold on her waist. She clutched at his arm, her fingers digging into the hard flesh beneath his coat; his shifted his grip, laying his fingers along the inside of her arm.

  
  


It _hurt_; but even as it began to bury her, as she became ready to wrench herself free and damn the consequences, he let her go. His fangs slid from her skin with a gut-wrenching _slithering _feeling, the punctures coming alight with a new, freezing ache as the air hit them. She instinctively tried to raise a hand to her mouth in an attempt to assess the damage, but as she raised her arm his thumbnail sank into her wrist, tearing fabric and skin alike.

  
  


She gave a small, shuddering cry and jerked away, but his hand clamped down with unbelievable force; she could feel her elbow _creak _as her yanked her closer. Finally releasing her waist, he reached behind them to pluck one of the goblets from the table; an eyeblink later it was held beneath her wound. His hand slid higher to just above the rent in her flesh, and he began to squeeze rhythmically; for a moment she could only watch, transfixed, as the thick, viscous fluid that passed for her blood seeped into the cup.

  
  


She looked up at him, wild-eyed, but his expression remained as fixed and intent as ever. He pursed his lips, clenching down with increasing pressure as the lazy trickle grew ever slower, but he would not meet her gaze.

  
  


As abruptly as he'd seized her, he let her go, nearly flinging her away; she staggered back a step, clutching her wounded wrist to her breast and shielding her mouth with her hand. He peered into the goblet, as if assessing its merit, and was apparently satisfied by what he found there. Lowering it once more, he reared back his head and spat into it, a half-congealed blob of blood and saliva splattering into what he'd taken from her.

  
  


He swirled its new contents, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise. Dipping the barest tip of a claw into it, he touched it to his tongue; he gave a short nod, as if pleased with the taste. She pressed herself against the wall, as far away as she could manage without attracting his attention. She felt a new jolt of pain as her fingers inadvertently brushed against the holes in her lip, which was immediately obliterated by the gruesome, awe-inspiring realization that they were already smaller than they had been. She pressed her fingers against them, ignoring the pain; she did not know what she would do if she could truly feel her own flesh knitting. One last tiny wonder before Radu exacted whatever other torments he had in mind for her.

  
  


Ash's expression was blank, his stance unaltered, but the look he gave Radu was nevertheless avid. Dmitri, behind him, seemed to have taken a page from her own book; he cowered against the dark wooden paneling, doing his best to render himself invisible. The stark terror on his face was enough to make her wonder why he hadn't fled, if he was so badly afraid to see what was going to become of her.

  
  


Radu's shoulders straightened, and she could not prevent herself from flinching; but he stepped away, deftly moving to avoid Cassandra's feet as he set the goblet down on the edge of the table. He looked down at her, head tilted at an inquisitive angle; he seemed almost to be waiting for something, as if another seizure was all the confirmation of Michelle's treachery he needed.

  
  


Eyeblink. Radu was standing over Cassandra; Radu was standing behind Dmitri, whose face had contorted into a mask of tragedy. Radu plunged his fingers into Dmitri's throat, wriggling them until they had sunk in to the last knuckle. With a wet, gristly tearing sound, Dmitri's neck seemed _to explode _in a shower of gobbets and splashes, the blood pouring from him almost as quickly as a mortal's would have. 

  
  


Radu planted a foot against one of Dmitri's and, seizing his shoulders, swung him in a rough circle; Dmitri was able to stagger along, but collapsed with a crash when Radu shoved him away, landing awkwardly on two of the chairs. He clutched helplessly at his ruined through; he gasped, a high, whining wheeze that was the best approximation of speech he could manage. Ash started at the sound; a moment later, he was striding _around _the table, taking the long way around to avoid whatever Radu had just done; the tail of his coat brushed Michelle's skirts as he passed. He grabbed Dmitri and dragged him away from the pile of splintered wood, but seemed to take no other notice of his fledgling's injuries; his eyes remained fixed on the grim tableau.

  
  


Radu had sunk to his knees; he pressed his fingers against the bloody track on the carpet, and with a frown of intense concentration, began to dab them on the rug beside it. Still painting, he reached up and plucked the goblet from the table; after a brief pause to re-wet his fingers, he continued with renewed speed to...

  
  


..._inscribe the circle with sigils. _Michelle pressed her fist against her mouth to keep herself from gasping, heedless of the discomfort. She strained against the wall, wishing she could burrow into it; wishing she had the strength to _flee. _She could not see well enough to determine what exactly he was doing—she probably wouldn't have recognized it—but—she squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Books were one thing; the reality of blood sacrifice was even now almost too much to comprehend.

  
  


She whimpered despite herself when he began to speak.

  
  


Michelle remembered that first sanity-destroying escape from his mother's lair; the gift of flight apparently not extending to carrying passengers, the two of them had done... _something. _The rough, sawing cacophony of their voices chanting had been like nothing she'd ever heard before, like nothing _human_; the wrenching, ripping _movement _of it had been enough to leave her nearly senseless.

  
  


This was so much worse.

  
  


She did not know what language she was hearing—did not know if it could be _considered _language—but if she truly did survive until the end of time, it would still be too soon to hear it a second time. It was not as abrasive as that first—ritual—had been; if anything, it was almost seductive, until one _listened_. She clapped her hands over her ears, but she could do nothing to silence the creeping invasion. Sibilant and silken, it was the sound of snakes slithering through the leaves of apple trees, of virgins sold as temple whores, of souls signed away in heart's blood. She pressed her hands against her skull as hard as she could, her knees weakening with the effort of trying to drown out that sound, but it was no use; it was _imperative, _it was _consuming, _it was _irresistible_\--

  
  


It was over.

  
  


Long moments passed; her wounds throbbed, as if there was a pulse beating behind them. She was trembling, shaking like a wind-rattled branch. She had fallen to her knees, slumping against the wall. Her nails were digging into her scalp.

  
  


She wasn't dead.

  
  


Prying her bleary eyes open, she was almost surprised to find herself still within the audience room; she blinked a few times, trying to clear the haze from her eyes, before giving up and letting her chin sink wearily to her breast. It was enough simply to have that insidious, pervasive _defilement _over with. She could face anything else. Anything but that.

  
  


Funny, how often she'd come to find herself thinking that.

  
  


She could not have said how much time had passed; she felt drained, hollowed out, sere. It was all she could do to remain as upright as she was. Seconds spooled out like gummy thread, tangling in her scattered thoughts.

  
  


The first thing that drew her back towards reality was movement. Radu rose to one knee; after another endless span, he braced a hand against his knee to lever himself upright with. She could have sworn that he swayed, ever so slightly, before gaining his feet; his fingers wrapped around the goblet as if it were more precious than the Bloodstone itself... and perhaps, in that moment, it was.

  
  


He scuffed idly at the floor, puzzling Michelle until she realized that he was breaking the circle. He turned sideways, as if to sidle through a narrow space... and perhaps, in that moment, he was.

  
  


His footfalls seemed thunderously loud as he crossed the short distance to Cassandra; her wounds pulsed in rhythm with his steps. He sank to one knee, and this time he did sway, raising the hand that held the goblet so as not to spill it while he gained his balance. He lowered it, bracing the elbow against his knee. He looked down at Cassandra, his hair falling forward to obscure what little she had been able to see of his face. He leaned over her for a long moment, though she could not have said whether he was examining Cassandra, or simply steeling his nerves.

  
  


Then, dipping his fingers into the goblet, he began to paint once more.

  
  


The first few strokes were cautious, almost hesitant, as if even he was repulsed by the prospect of touching the wreck of Cassandra's flesh. But he gained speed as he pressed on, returning to re-wet his fingers more and more frequently as he progressed. He was _coating _her, dressing her wounds in whatever the admixture of blood and spit had now become.

  
  


Michelle pushed herself away from the wall, compromising with her body's unwillingness to right itself by sitting back on her heels. The strange procedure was repugnant and compelling; she half expected the skin of his fingertips to smoke as it came in contact with the blistered roil of decay that shrouded Cassandra's upper torso. But he simply rubbed the contents of the goblet in, smoothing it along with his thumbs; neither he nor Cassandra seemed to take any particular notice of what he was doing.

  
  


When his nails caught one of the loose, twisted flaps of her sloughing skin, Michelle winced in sympathy, assuming it was an accident. When he sank his talons in and _yanked_, it was all she could do to stifle a small shriek of dismay. She clapped her hands over her mouth, her wounds a frozen, pulsing ache; this was _sick, _there was no reason to drag it out like this--

  
  


But as she watched, the slick black mass that had once been skin stretched like a thin rubber sheet. Radu pulled it farther and farther away from Cassandra's body, an impossible distance. Holes had begun to form in it, but it seemed that it would do nothing but leak indescribably as it grew ever thinner until, with a nauseating wet _glop _of a sound, it finally pulled free.

  
  


Radu dropped it as quickly as possible, shaking his hand in disgust; but after a brief delay to flick his nails free of the clinging putrescence, he returned his attentions to Cassandra, selecting another of her boils to sink his talons into. Michelle's eyes widened as she watched the process repeat itself—did he truly mean to pull her apart piece by piece?—but as the second chunk of flesh squelched free, she caught sight of what lay beneath it.

  
  


It was clean.

  
  


Cassandra's flesh was pitted and sunken, as if some long ago accident had scooped the meat from her, but it was _clean_; the skin, though stippled with marks like gooseflesh in its appalling new configuration, was pale and intact; healthy. Radu was tearing the corruption away from her, strip by strip of ragged pus.

  
  


She could not have said how long the procedure took; though Radu seemed to exercise no particular care in what he did, he never took hold of more than a certain amount at a time... and there was quite a bit to get rid of. Michelle could barely stand to watch—she found herself peeping at them between her spread fingers at one point—but the prospect of wholeness, of _healing_, was too much to entirely turn away from. It was almost too much too comprehend; she had never imagined anything like this. It seemed impossible that their skills—their _sorcery—_might be used to help as well as harm. Yet she saw incontrovertible evidence of exactly that with every inch of puckered new flesh Radu's ministrations revealed.

  
  


Finally, he stopped; the slippery, organic noises finally ceased. He pushed her stole away, revealing what little of her shoulder it had covered; but, while Cassandra looked as if she had undergone a mastectomy, it seemed that the rotten black flesh was entirely removed.

  
  


Michelle could not tell if her eyes burned due to her riveted staring, or unshed tears.

  
  


Radu hoisted himself to his feet, and there was no missing how careful and strained his movements were; but his voice was its accustomed rasp when he spoke. “Feed her.”

  
  


“Of course.” Michelle flinched at the sound; she had forgotten that there were others in the room... that there was anything else in the world. Ash had been crouching by Dmitri, who had somehow managed to clamber to his hands and knees; he quickly rose and hurried to Cassandra. Genuflecting beside her, the new, pitted landscape of her body gave him no pause. He carefully slipped an arm beneath her shoulders—did her eyelashes flutter? Michelle thought they had—and, with infinite gentleness, raised her to rest against against his bent knee. He caressed her cheek with the back of his knuckles, before moving to raise his sleeve once more.

  
  


“_Elsewhere._”

  
  


Ash's head jerked up, and his expression was so fierce that for a moment, Michelle thought he would refuse. But he nodded tightly, inserting his other arm beneath her knees. “Dmitri. _Up._” The response was a stifled gurgle; but as he carefully lifted Cassandra into his arms, she heard a muffled thump that could only be the ravaged painter's best attempt to obey. He cast one last ageless, unreadable look at Radu, then turned to make his way from the room with the fluid grace that only belonged to the undead.

  
  


She turned her head to watch them go. Dmitri staggered, barely able to move under his own power; but even in his wretched state, he did not forget to shut the doors behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

As soon as they were out of sight, Radu gave a soft, thoughtful growl. Michelle returned her attention to him just in time to see him slump against the wall in a movement that did not look entirely voluntary.

  
  


His lids drifted shut; the pits of his eyes seemed even deeper than usual, the skin darker, the prominent ridges of his brow even more sharply defined. His skin seemed paper-thin, so pale as to be nearly translucent, stretched drumhead-tight over prominent, visible bones. He looked _awful_.

  
  


Michelle watched him in wonder, unsure of what to make of such obvious dissipation. She had seen him come back from _decapitation _seeming better than this... but, then, she had never seen him in the few hours immediately following his... injuries. Perhaps this was simply a normal part of being what he was, a steep price exacted for the impossible things he was able to do; but, much as she'd hoped, she'd never truly thought to see him so weakened. Nor did he evidently make a habit of it; looking at him now, she had no doubt as to why he'd sent the others away, even in their fragile states. He hadn't been able to leave himself, not without revealing how spent he truly was.

  
  


He had done this to himself on Cassandra's behalf.

  
  


The realization was like a stone tossed into the pool of her thoughts; the ripples were unique and unpredictable. _Why? _Because Michelle had caused her to be hurt, and he felt the need to make amends—was that why he'd included her? Because he'd felt _bad _for her? No; no, she would have walked in on the ritual in progress...

  
  


Because Michelle had asked him to?

  
  


She shied away from the thought, unwilling to accept it. It didn't matter. Whatever reason had been its cause; this had worked out in her favor more thoroughly than she could have imagined. Cassandra was safe, but she, Dmitri, and perhaps even Radu were out of commission; Ash, she had to assume, would be preoccupied with Cassandra, even if whatever actions he pursued with her did not leave him diminished. There was another one... Anton... but...

  
  


Radu had done something _nice. _Without any apparent motive for profit.

  
  


“Thank you,” she said.

  
  


His eyes remained closed, but the corners of his lips lifted in a weary smile, revealing his blood-streaked fangs. “Your woeful pleas have always been music to my ears, pretty one.”

  
  


She pressed her lips together, stung by the gibe; but, for once, she could not believe there was any true malice in it. “I'm sorry,” she said, and found, to her surprise, that she truly meant it; not simply Cassandra, but _all _of it, at least on some level. With the end looming so close, she found that, even now, she could find room in her heart for pity. It was a luxury she had been unable to afford for too long.

  
  


His fingers twitched, as if to wave away her apology. “I shall destroy whatever it was that presumed to lay hands on you,” he said. “Presently.” He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, shoulders hunching. He reached up to pull the lapels of his jacket closer together, as if he were cold. “Presently,” he repeated; but for whose reassurance, she could not have said.

  
  


She watched him, fascinated by his vulnerability. No more the looming, vicious monstrosity that had been the architect of so much torment, he seemed dissipated, just a tired, misbegotten, deformed thing.

  
  


She wondered, hopefully, if she would have to go through with it after all. He seemed so—so _frail—_that all her scheming seemed like wild overkill. She could climb the stairs and walk out the door right now, leaving everyone to fend for their fates as best they could; he might not even notice, in his current state.

  
  


She might be able to kill him now. The loose, wrinkled skin of his throat had never looked more susceptible. As fraught as the others were with the evening's events, they might not even notice until she was well on her way; and even if she did, she doubted Ash bore Radu any loyalty great enough to send him in pursuit of her on his own.

  
  


But finding out she was wrong would prove terrible.

  
  


Hubris, she told herself; squeamishness. She had promises to keep, and an appointment to make. This was too much of a boon; she couldn't risk wasting it.

  
  


She rose to her feet slowly, carefully, but though a lingering ache remained, her head seemed to have cleared. Her wrist was consumed with a strange, dull numbness, but running her tongue along the back of her underlip told her that its wounds had sealed, though she could feel the small divots that marked where they'd been. She realized with some surprise that she was not even thirsty, as she usually was after an injury; she felt as if she had been dipped in wax, and was only now beginning to crumble the thick, suffocating seal that kept her from the world.

  
  


He did not seem to notice as she crossed the room, but his eyes merely opened a crack when she made herself lay a hand on his forearm. They watched each other for a long, silent moment; his brown eyes were liquid, strain evident at their corners. “Thank you,” she said again, unable to force herself to more.

  
  


“Michelle,” he said; and the weary tone seemed born of frustration rather than exhaustion. “If you would only heed me, and come to my hand...” He shook his head vaguely. “There would be nothing you could not ask of me.”

  
  


Her throat closed, aching with the tension of her grief and shame. He meant that, as far as it went; but he would never understand why the only things she had ever truly wanted from him were not his to give. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of him any longer. She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, baring her teeth in the effort; she was so fraught with misery that even the light touch of his hand on her back was a fleeting comfort.

  
  


She raised her arms as he embraced her, leaving her forearms pressed against his ribcage. He stroked her hair lightly, the tips of his claws catching in her curls; his chest was cool and firm beneath her cheek, utterly, perfectly still. She might have been leaning against a kindly pillar. She was paralyzed with loathing and longing; she knew what she must do, but had no idea how to bring herself to do it. “I'm sorry,” she whispered against the soft fabric of his shirt. “I'm sorry if I...”

  
  


“Easily enough mended, through the largesse of an old friend,” he said, and she realized he thought she was speaking of Cassandra. Which she had been, to some extent; there was almost no counting all the things she'd done wrong. “I am simply... _unused _to such... undertakings.” His voice was a little more loose, the rumble of his chest against her ear not so harsh; he was pleased by what he thought was her worry for him.

  
  


Michelle wondered how much of it was really supernatural powers, and how much of it was simply the benefit of centuries' practice in learning to read people.

  
  


“I've just been so _scared,_” she mumbled into his chest. She'd never been much of an actress, but it was so easy to tell him a version of the truth he would find to his liking; the pain and the sorrow were all too real. “_All _of it, but... don't you remember how hard it is?” she asked in a sudden flash of inspiration. “How hard it is just to _believe_, never mind actually... actually d-doing...”

  
  


Radu's arms tightened around her; he pressed her gently back against his chest, tucking her head beneath is chin. “There is little worth having that isn't.” The backs of his knuckles brushed her cheek, skeletal and cold.

  
  


“I just... I can't do this any more. Tonight was...” It was hard not to end it with a sob; her eyes burned anew. “I can't _stand _it. I'm afraid all the time... I can hardly _think _because I'm so scared... I'm always frightened of what you're going to do...” His fingers stilled as she finally sniffled. “I don't want to be like this any more, Radu,” she said tiredly.

  
  


The fingers were light beneath her chin, the pricks of his nails so soft they must have been accidental. He raised her face until she met his eyes, guarded and inscrutable. “Your life,” he said, “is not something I will ever bargain for.”

  
  


“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “No.” With slow, deliberate care, she turned her face until his cheek cupped her palm; she let her eyes close once more, hoping that he wanted to believe her as badly as she thought he did.

  
  


His hand was still for a long moment; long enough that she would have begun to doubt, had she not been so utterly drained by getting this far. The skin of his palm was as rough and reptilian as ever; she had never been able to decide if they were simply calluses, or if they were pads, like an animal's. It didn't matter; she had grown more familiar with them than she had ever wished.

  
  


She could not help tensing when she felt him move, but his lips were as soft and gentle as any man's when he placed them against her forehead. It wasn't terrible or insupportable; just a touch, light and easy. She didn't die. She didn't even scream.

  
  


He stroked her cheek, his fingers winding into her curls. “There is no need to abase yourself in this,” he told her, his lips moving against her skin, “it will be seen to, regardless.” His fingers tightened on her hair, enough to set her scalp tingling. “It seems you have little enough need of my protection as it is.”

  
  


“That's not what I meant.” She closed her eyes, and let him make of that what he would.

  
  


“No?” The amusement in his voice was a little more evident now, enough that she knew she'd been right, that his last statement had been gentle mockery.

  
  


“No.” She swallowed thickly. “I want...” _Free, free, free._ Her lips were numb, her tongue a stone, her mind bereft of anything useful. She inhaled, a deep, shuddering breath, and ducked her head beneath his chin. His hand fisted, hard enough to hurt—of course; he thought she was going for his throat—but she merely rested her forehead against his chest, above her clenched hands. She made herself hold still despite the pain, despite the odd angle his grip twisted her neck at; slowly, so slowly she could scarcely tell it was happening, she felt his fingers loosen.

  
  


Linen, she decided, moving her head slightly to feel the nap of his shirt against her skin. There was only a small triangle of it accessible between the lapels of his jacket, but it was more thin and fine than anything she was used to. She exhaled, catching the faintest whiff of it; not musty, as she'd expected, but smelling faintly of something sharp and acrid. Not mothballs; cedar, perhaps. It made sense.

  
  


Details. Tiny, little details, from which one could assemble the whole picture... but only if one chose.

  
  


She ran a hand slowly up his chest, feeling the smoothness of his jacket beneath her palm, doing her best to disregard the hardness beneath it. Smooth, almost slick, but far too rough and matte to be satin; she couldn't begin to guess, and so carefully slipped a finger beneath his collar. She could feel the weight of his necklet dragging its ends down, far too heavy to be silver; it could only be iron. It wasn't quite a torque, as she'd first thought, but some sort of pins, something that attached—but there was a fine cord circling his neck beneath the points, as if to support the extra weight.

  
  


Details. His claws pressing into her side, just above her hip, not quite enough to prick through the layers of fabric she wore. The tilt of his head as he pulled her closer, pressing her against his chest, letting her head nestle against his throat.

  
  


There was no excuse good enough to make her fingers seek skin instead of fabric; she didn't know if he would interpret it as a threat, couldn't bear to handle that kind of intimacy. It was easier, in its way, to slip an arm around his waist; it might have been a casual gesture, might simply have been a welcome, a courtesy, a human kindness she'd have offered to anyone.

  
  


His fingers trailed along her cheekbone once more, but his touch was slower, now, almost hesitant. Had he ever known a willing woman's embrace? Surely he must have, at some point... but despite his ambitions on her behalf, had he perhaps begun to give up on the idea that he would ever receive hers? She thought he might have; that his careful acceptance of her might be born of surprise, and of ignorance as to how best proceed. It was an interesting thought, and one that Michelle tried to let cheer her; it had been so very long since she had felt as if she had any power over what happened to her.

  
  


Even if it was only like this.

  
  


The tips of his nails catching on her lip were enough to make her gasp, startling her from her brief reverie; he withdrew immediately, his fingers rising to rest against her temple. “Pretty one,” he said, and stopped. There was no sense of a question begun, a statement discarded; she was unable to interpret any meaning besides the obvious from it.

  
  


She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to bury her mind in thoughts of fabric, thread count, jewelry; she knew what she had to do, but couldn't think of a way to make herself do it. She could bat her eyelashes and simper; she could continue as she'd begun, leading him to offer her the solace of his embrace; she could bury her hands in his hair and pull him down for a fierce, gnawing kiss, as they'd shared in the past.

  
  


No. No, no, no. She couldn't do any of that. Like a forest fire sparked from a carelessly dropped match, panic blazed through her, roaring over her with such force it set her trembling. She couldn't do this; she'd known she couldn't, even as she'd explained what she'd meant to do, but that hadn't stopped her from convincing them to throw their lives away on her squeamishness, misery loving company as much as it did. She hadn't even managed to hold out until Zachary arrived.

  
  


Radu's hand slipped around to cradle the back of her skull, squeezing gently, pressing her forward. Her shaking increased when she thought he offered his throat, one last unholy communion to set the stain of her sins, but she could not restrain a whimper when she realized that he was merely holding her, easing her into the protective curve of his body. He was doing his feeble best to _comfort _her, even as she struggled to find steel enough in her soul to betray him. “Retreating in good order is no mean feat, betimes,” he said softly.

  
  


A compliment, the second one in a night; it was almost enough to choke on. But the sheer incongruity of it pierced the haze of despair and loathing that shrouded her, just enough to stop her short of outright hysterics. “You never praise me,” she said, hating the whining, childish tone of her voice, but glad of something, anything sensible emerging from her lips.

  
  


“You rarely merit it,” he replied. His fingertips began their descent once more, circling the curve of her ear. “Yet you have faced one of the nightmares of our kind and emerged unscathed, when one half a dozen times your age could not.” His claws slithered along her jaw, just hard enough to raise the hair on the back of her neck; he slipped his fingers beneath her chin, gently raising her face to meet his gaze. “Do you wonder, still, why I find you so exquisite?”

  
  


She let her gaze go hazy and unfocused, unable to meet his eyes; she stared at an imaginary point just behind him, a trick she'd learned in a public speaking class to give the illusion of attention to an entire crowd. “It's just so hard,” she repeated senselessly. She didn't care what she said, so long as it was at least vaguely coherent; she just needed to keep talking, keep thinking, keep _calm. _“Everything is just so... so _different, _I...” She shook her head, freeing herself of his touch. “I miss...” _Everything. Anything. Anything but you._

  
  


“You are right to think me monstrous... but I have never acted against your interests.” Radu pulled her close once more; his voice was a deep, purring throb in his chest. “Clinging so desperately to your mortality has brought you nothing but suffering. I might have had it otherwise... but it cannot be so.” His arm tightened around her waist with force that could have bruised. “_Be what you are._” He nuzzled her, burying his face in her hair. “You are so very adept at it,” he nearly whispered.

  
  


And there it was: she knew what she could say, if not necessarily what she could actually do... if he took it the right way, if he responded... if she could get him to take her somewhere... “I've lost everything,” she replied in that same, barely audible tone. “_Everything. _Everything's changed...”

  
  


“Trappings. Facades. Seemings.” She wondered, for the first time, if his grandiose speech was not merely a vain habit, but a search for some way to communicate with her that she'd understand.

  
  


“Is it so wrong to miss them?” She closed her eyes, letting her body sag against his; it would take every ounce of strength she possessed to continue in this vein. “Is it so wrong to miss _everything?_” He remained silent, unwilling or unable to answer her. Good. Oh, God... she made herself tighten her arm around his waist, made her leaden fingers knead his hip.

  
  


He inhaled slowly, his breath rattling in his throat; she felt his chest rise against her, but there was no expected fall of exhalation. Details. Little, tiny details, to remind her how completely inhuman, how _monstrous, _the thing she dealt with was.

  
  


“You _crave_ such congress?” he asked finally, and the frank disbelief in his tone was almost enough to wring a strangled laugh from her; she sang her fangs into her lower lip to stave off the grim hilarity, lightly prodding the still evident pits from his bite. That was the final, bedrock truth of the matter, the one insurmountable barrier between himself and the rest of the world: he knew very well what he was, what his acts entailed, and still seemed to have no problem, save perhaps of logistics, with any of it. She could think of no response that would serve, nothing that would not end with her laughing or screaming, and so remained silent, hoping her reticence might be interpreted as maidenly shyness.

  
  


He took hold of her biceps as well as he could, pressing his palms against them, fingers fanning along her back. She lowered her head, hiding her face against his chest; she couldn't stand to look at him, knew she could not manage to continue if she were forced to meet his gaze. “Please,” she whispered. Please let this work. Please let them all survive. Please make this bearable. _Please._

  
  


His hands slipped upward, rising slowly to cup her shoulders; the tips of his nails nearly reached past her shoulder blades, those extra phalanges resting on their curves. He lowered his head, his lips brushing her ear. “Michelle,” he said; she shivered at the movement. “There is nothing I can truly deny you.” His voice was low and taut, a strange, uneven tone she'd never heard before. Good. It was going to work... it _would _work, if she could manage to keep a grip on herself. _Please. _

  
  


Radu pulled her away from himself, and as gentle as the pressure was, it was nearly enough to undo her. She hadn't thought this through, hadn't been able to make her mind work past the enormity of the act itself. Downstairs, she had thought vaguely, levels and layers away from the mayhem that was going to ensue... but there were sofas here, weren't there? There was a table. There were niceties he hadn't shown the slightest interest in observing.

  
  


She wasn't going to do this for nothing. She _couldn't._

  
  


“No,” she gasped sharply, and perhaps too much of her true feelings bled through; Radu jerked his head up, looking down at her with a flat, implacable expression. She struggled to get her tone modulated. “Not...” She gestured vaguely, hoping he would take her meaning. _I'm shy. I'm scared. _She thought it as hard as she could, for what little good it might do her.

  
  


And perhaps it did; his lips pursed with indulgent humor. “Of course not.” He turned his head, gazing at the wall; she could hear nothing, but that didn't mean he couldn't. “Though I suppose you have reason to think me so coarse.” He stepped away, and for a moment she thought he meant to offer her his arm; but his hand settled on the small of her back, resting on the rise of her buttocks. Gritting her teeth, she allowed him to steer her towards the door.

  
  


Michelle had half expected a hidden door, a secret passage, another tunnel in this endless warren of passageways, but if there was anything like that, he was not inclined to share it with her. Emerging into the hall almost seemed like entering another world; it had been comparatively simple to talk herself—to talk _him _into what they were doing in the dim, shadowed recesses of the conference room, but here, in this relatively familiar, _real _place...

  
  


There was no sign of anyone else, no muffled sounds from behind any of the doors, but she strained her ears regardless; even a whimpering moan of pain from Cassandra would have been a welcome sign. She could still scarcely believe what she'd seen; both sorcery, real and quite literally in the flesh, and the fact that Radu had been the one to enact it. The largesse of a friend, he'd called it, a statement she didn't dare analyze. Summoning demons was as absurd an idea as _congress _with a millennium-old corpse to distract it from a kidnapping. Her stomach clenched, tightening itself into knots; she hoped for a moment that the cramps presaged hunger—ravenous, savage, all-consuming—anything to distract them from the moment; but though they did not ease, they settled enough that she knew them for nothing more than the product of her own distress.

  
  


She scarcely noticed the wonders Ash had gathered around himself throughout the years as they passed amongst them, trying desperately to lose herself in her thought. She'd lost so much blood... yet not nearly so much as Cassandra. The memory of that black, rotting pustulence was enough to elicit another tearing fist of nausea; the memory of her smooth, scooped chest was not a cheerful one, but it was one that pleased her. While she could not bring herself to consider any of their kind innocent, Cassandra truly had been a bystander; even knowing what she was, it was hard to ascribe any real malice to the kittenish, feral glee she exuded. As much of a horror as she might prove to be, Michelle genuinely, sincerely wished her well.

  
  


_His hand is warm, _she realized with a nerve-wracking start as they began to descend the stairs. It had taken a few moments to penetrate her clothing, but it was true; he felt almost feverish against her muscles moving beneath his palm. _He's been inside, and I haven't, _she assured herself, trying her best to ignore the sensation, though now that it had drawn her notice, it seemed to burn like a brand against her skin, and the recollection that she was now, always, room temperature did little to soothe her.

  
  


What an idiotic thing to think. There would be no soothing, no calming, no easing her way through things; she could only press forward as best she could, and pray ardently for a tolerable result. She only wished she knew what to pray to.

  
  


They made the descent in eerie silence. She almost wished he'd say something, something ominous, or snide, or mocking; something that would ignite enough rage within to carry her though the next moments. But even the hand on her back barely moved; a surreptitious glance showed his head slightly lowered, his gaze fixed on the path ahead of them. Too much to hope that he was anywhere near as undone as she was; too ripe with disappointment to hope that he was not simply planning out what he intended to do to her with precise, methodical forethought.

  
  


_No_; no, don't think of that, not until there was no other option. The darkness of the narthex was nearly stygian; almost dark enough to make her think of hiding. Confronted anew with the massive, imposing bulk of the entrance, she realized how foolish her suspicion of some secret entrance had been. Why go to the effort—and she could not imagine what it must have taken to engineer such an edifice so far below the ground, even given modern improvements in technique—to build such an impenetrable fortress, only to allow such easy access? This place spoke of utter, consuming paranoia; she doubted that fallout shelters had yet been conceived of when it had been built, but she had no doubt that it would function better than almost anything designed for the purpose.

  
  


He released her only to open the door; his hand immediately returned to the small of her back, propelling her though with a hint of urgency. _Finally. _She closed her eyes, trusting her feet to carry her forward as he turned to haul it closed. Now she was truly in the maw of the nightmare.

  
  


Opening her eyes, she blinked rapidly, for a moment unable to reconcile the vague dimness before her. After the subterranean blackness of the narthex, anything should have been scaldingly bright, but she was unable to make her eyes focus properly. _The flame was lost. _Of course; Radu had only relit a few of the gaslights, further into the lair. There were worse things, she decided; a little haze around the edges, a bit of darkness to disguise things, was preferable to the confrontation stark, unyielding brightness would require.

  
  


She could feel him looming behind her, his mere presence enough to prickle along her skin.

  
  


_I am scared, I am frightened, I am terrified._

  
  


_Please._

  
  


His hands settled lightly on her shoulders, before slipping down to gather her hair into his grasp. He twisted it gently, working it between his fingers; it had the air of a thoughtless habit rather than an intentional caress. She closed her eyes once more, trying to trick herself into concentrating only on the sensation, which was not unpleasant... until she felt the extra joint against the back of her neck, and remembered who was causing it.

  
  


Radu stroked the back of her neck with his knuckles for a long moment. She expected his fingers to circle her neck at any moment, the simple touch giving way to the teasing, terrible tracing of the large veins in her throat he was wont to do, but his hand only stilled after a time. “Come,” he said.

  
  


She allowed him to press her forward, unnerved by his careful following of her footsteps, and tried to anticipate where he might be directing her. An image of the gruesome table with its horrible guests flashed through her mind, causing her mouth to crumple with despair and revulsion, but she forced her expression into even smoothness, even as her dread mounted. She couldn't imagine why he would want to... but, then, she could predict very little of what would catch his macabre fancy.

  
  


One of the subspecies had been in there the night before, she remembered, having somehow hitched or hiked its way into the city.

  
  


Was it going to watch?

  
  


She flinched from the touch on her shoulder, but he seemed to take no notice, keeping up the steady, gentle pressure. She opened her eyes as she turned, and realized he was prodding her toward the room with the plinth, that had served them as bedroom the night before. Of course. She could not resist an involuntary pause as she stood upon the threshold; the stone was cold and pitted, its decayed wrappings doing little to shield its occupants.

  
  


As if she did not have a great deal worse to complain of.

  
  


The light here was bright enough to force her to slit her eyes against the unexpected glare; she felt as much as saw Radu move around and past her, a vaguely shaped blur. She liked that. She liked it even more when the light lowered enough to be nothing more than a diffuse glow against her eyelids. As terrifying as it had been at first, she would have welcomed the impenetrable murk that had greeted their arrival in this place; wanted it badly enough that she found her lips moving. “All the way.”

  
  


He made a soft, interrogative noise, but surprisingly enough, obeyed. She let her eyes slip closed once more, wallowing in the scant protection the darkness offered. Even still, with her eyes attuned as they were, she could sense a faint glimmer of light from the end of the hall, but it wouldn't be enough to matter. She hoped.

  
  


His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and she gasped at the bone-chilling cold that seemed to radiate from them. _It was warm, _she thought, as he pulled her through the darkness. It seemed as if she were knotted into an enveloping shroud, or shut away once more in one of the body bags; no sight, no sound, simply the sensation of movement and the icy touch, intruding on her thoughts.

  
  


There was a slight rustle of fabric as he settled himself upon the plinth; she let her arm stretch out until there was nothing she could do but seat herself on the opposite corner. The ball of his thumb drew aimless circles on her wrist, the claw dragging trails of excited gooseflesh in her wake. It wasn't terrible. It wasn't intolerable. She did not die.

  
  


The kiss was sudden enough that she pulled back from simple startlement; his other hand was cupping her cheek, keeping her head in place as his mouth sought hers. Her eyes flew open, and she was grateful it was too dim to make anything out; she shut them again immediately, doing everything in her power to remain calm. _It's only kissing. That's all. Just kissing. _

  
  


But his attentions grew more ardent, the kiss deepening, his grip on her tightening until his nails pricked her scalp; she shuddered when she felt the rough scrape of his tongue against her lips, seeking entrance. He seemed to interpret that as a shiver of delight, and grew more bold. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, lightly nipping it between the flats of his incisors, and it was too reminiscent of the earlier bite, of his previous attentions, of _everything_; she shoved him away, her hand balling the fabric of his jacket.

  
  


They remained frozen in tableau for a timeless moment; Michelle was too shocked at her own movement to do anything else, and the darkness gave no clue as to what Radu made of it. The horror of it began to dawn even as relief flooded through her: she'd blown it. Her squeamishness had gotten the best of her, and she'd _blown _it. The best thing she could do would be to keep her grip on him and punch him as hard as she could, fight him as best as she could manage; she might still be able to buy enough time--

  
  


\--no. No. She hated it, even as she thought it, but she knew it was the only way, and made herself move before she had a chance to think about it.

  
  


If she was going to do this, she was going to _do _it. No more heel-dragging, no more being subject to the whims of those around her—to _his _whims. This was the decision she'd made; this was the course she'd chosen to follow; this was her will, her choice, her act.

  
  


She could feel him tense as she surged to her feet, ready to oppose her, just as easily as she could feel the shock jolt through him as she used her handful of jacket to haul him closer and force her mouth against his.

  
  


She kissed him fiercely, roughly, mashing his lips back against his teeth; the faint taste of his blood only spurred her on. It was all she could do not to return the punctures he'd given her earlier in the evening, but she forced herself to refrain; having him attempt to bite her back would be too much. _This _was almost too much; she slipped her tongue into his mouth to drive the thought away, concentrating solely on the alien sensation of his tongue scraping along hers. It was truly incomparable; she'd never felt anything like it. Half-ticklish, half-terrifying, it was almost enough to lose herself in.

  
  


His arm wrapped around her waist, and he reached up to trail his fingers down her spine, his nails snagging in the fabric. She reached up in turn to run a hand through his hair, gripping a fistful, and was surprised at its texture; coarse and thick, it still slid easily between her fingers, its waves rippling through her fingers. She gasped against his mouth as his hand slipped around to cup her hip, squeezing roughly; his fingers were nearly long enough to span the width of her back. She froze as his other hand came up to begin working at the small, fabric-covered buttons that fastened her coat.

  
  


Details. Always little details, creeping up unexpectedly when she was least prepared to deal with them. She hadn't thought this far, hadn't even the faintest of notions how—she could lift her skirts, she supposed, but—the jacket's collar tugged sharply at the back of her neck as he tugged at a recalcitrant buttonhole. She broke the kiss, closing her eyes and turning her face away. This was more in line with her vague expectations. His silence, his mild demeanor, had simply been a passing strangeness; now the violence and the violation would begin.

  
  


But his hands stayed relatively still. The more convinced she became that he was about to rip the coat from her body—it was already in rags; he wasn't patient—the more he continued to work at the buttons with an unnerving, quiet concentration. Their precise, orderly row had given her a bit of difficulty; as she glanced from the corner of her eye, she saw how much harder it was for him. His fingers didn't quite bend that way; he had to catch the buttons between a bent knuckle and the ball of his thumb. His knuckles seemed swollen, almost arthritic; had they always been that way? The muscles of her stomach clenched involuntarily as he worked his way lower, but he simply adhered to his task. It was almost a relief when he finally reached up to push the coat from her shoulders.

  
  


Almost.

  
  


Stretching her arms behind her, she allowed the the heavy fabric to slide from her body, leaving her with nothing but the dress, itself somewhat the worse for wear, to shield herself. Its buttons were even smaller, and down the back; that would finally break his unusual tolerance. She found that she was almost looking forward to it, as terrible as the end result would undoubtedly be. Aggression, conflict, fighting; those had become safe ground. She knew where she stood with them.

  
  


He reached up to caress her face, pulling her down for another kiss, but she managed to turn her head, sliding her cheek along his; his skin was rough and leathery. She buried her face in his hair, her lips resting against his neck, and only then realized what she'd done, what kind of access she'd inadvertently granted him. She tried to straighten, but a hand on her back held her against him; he laughed softly against her throat as she tried once again, testing his resolve. She let her eyes shut, trying to steel herself for the inevitable when she felt his lips brush her throat—and gasped aloud when he nipped her earlobe lightly. “Is that what you'd have of me?” he asked, his voice low and laughing. She didn't know what he was asking—didn't think that she dared to speak—and pressed her hands flat against his chest, searching for an answer. She slipped her hands beneath his jacket unthinkingly, feeling the softness of his shirt, the thicker fabric of his vest.

  
  


The buttons came easily; he leaned back, resting on one elbow while his hand remained on her shoulders, and it soon hung open. She laid her palms against his belly, made herself slide them slowly upwards. He was thin, almost wizened; every rib stood out, starkly individual beneath her hands. She didn't know if this was normal, but she couldn't imagine it was; nothing alive could be like this. But Zachary had looked even ghastlier when they had first met. She had assumed that Radu's predilection for layers was a reflection of the ancient fashions he seemed to prefer to keep; perhaps it was merely a tool to give himself a halfway human shape. She did not want to find out what lay beneath the shirt; perhaps, if she was deft, she would not have to.

  
  


With that new goal in mind, the particulars became slightly easier to deal with; she had something to work for, to work _around. _She smoothed her hands down his front one more time, trying to reconcile her mind with what her palms told her. She had dated a swimmer once, good enough to study poetry on a scholarship for it; he had been nothing but long, lean, muscle and bone, trim and precise. She insisted to herself that this wasn't too different; as long as she was not forced to encounter anything that told her otherwise, she could mostly make herself believe it. Radu's hand still rested lightly on her shoulders; when he pulled her down again, she let him.

  
  


Divorced from context, considered only as sensation, it might have been pleasant. He was adroit, gentle, but never hesitant; he teased her, building slowly and inexorably towards what should have been passion. _Centuries of practice, _she told herself, unable to repress a frisson of pleasure, _it's just nerve endings, just tension._ The same lips that were so soft and urgent now had fastened on countless unwilling throats throughout the years; the teeth that nibbled and nipped had torn through endless, unknown strangers, snuffing out centuries' worth of lives.

  
  


He kissed her harder, crushing her against him, the first hint of roughness; she froze involuntarily, her body going rigid. _No, no, no—_she wasn't sure what she was protesting, the act, or her sudden inability to participate in it; he stopped just as suddenly, his lips trailing along the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear. He shuddered against her, sucking down a deep, rasping breath; his exhalation was cool, tickling the small hairs along her neck upright. He nuzzled deeper into her hair, continuing to breathe; she could not imagine why—could not bear to examine the particulars of a situation in which the sheer act of breathing was incongruous, until the explanation suddenly came to her.

  
  


He was smelling her.

  
  


She kept her head bent, her face nearly resting on his shoulder; too unnerved to move, she could not decide whether or not she hoped he found whatever scent he was seeking, but glad of the high collar that offered her throat some scant protection.

  
  


His fingers danced lightly along her shoulder blades once more, slipping upwards; they came to rest lightly on the row of tiny, fabric-covered buttons.

  
  


She nearly laughed.

  
  


Once again, he addressed the diminutive fastenings with a surprising gentleness; she wondered if some former paramour had been ferocious enough to leave him with a fear of ripping clothes. She wished once more that he would, simply to get it over with, to put them once again on a footing that she could at least understand, but his patience continued to prevail. Nor was he having an easy time of it; the collar itself was easy enough, but the delicate fabric hooks down the back had nearly defeated her, rushed as she had been, and had provided an object demonstration in why ladies of the period had required servants to dress them. The soft scritch of his nails against the fabric, the light, piercing prodding, was almost unbearable.

  
  


If she didn't think about things, she could do them. That idea had gotten her this far.

Slowly, she lifted her hands from his chest and slipped the behind her, bending her elbows beneath his raised arms. He had managed to get a few of the buttons, so that she was able to raise her hands behind her without too great a strain; carefully, as if she were handling acid, she slipped her hands beneath his, managing to avoid touching him.

  
  


He made a soft, inquisitive noise, but gave no other response. For a long moment, she was unable to make her numb fingers move; then, very methodically, she began to unbutton the dress.

  
  


She kept her face turned away; she was simply getting undressed. His palms settled on her shoulders, kneading her gently; the fabric began to gape open across her back as she undid more of its fastenings. She expected to feel his scabrous touch on her skin at any moment, but his hands remained where they were; he began to kiss her once more, small, gentle touches of his lips beside her eye, along her cheek, her jaw. The occasional scrape of teeth was nothing more than a love bite, such as any man might give; she closed her eyes, trying to let herself think of better times.

  
  


His hands slipped beneath the dress to encircle her bare waist the same moment his lips met hers.

  
  


She whimpered in surprise as much as dismay, straightening abruptly; one of his hands slithered up her spine to rest on the back of her neck, rubbing the muscles roughly as he kept her head bent to his. His claws prickled against her skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake as he circled around to her navel; though the heel of his palm rested against her hip, his fingertips still brushed the bottom of her breast. She gritted her teeth, keeping her face averted; the fingers of his other hand stole beneath the collar of the dress, sliding it down her shoulder. His mouth fastened on her throat, sucking and licking, the roughness of his tongue leaving raw flesh in its wake; but even as she grew convinced that he would lose himself and savage her, he began to work downwards, following the curve of her shoulder, pushing the dress away as he went.

  
  


All she had to do was bend her elbows; the dress would stay, she could shove him—_no, no, no,_ this wasn't bad, _this wasn't bad._ Get past the memories; get past the fear; he hadn't hurt her yet... yet... she hadn't done anything... yet... Her lips began to tremble as he pulled the dress down further, his teeth grazing her clavicle. This wasn't really who she was, was it? This couldn't really be happening to her—she was going to get her PhD in February—she had a job waiting for her at the archives in Boston—she'd never so much as gotten a speeding ticket—

  
  


She yelped when his tongue found her nipple, its texture like wet sandpaper against that delicate flesh. His arm encircled her waist, gripping her tightly; she dug her nails into his shoulders as his teeth closed lightly around her. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to pull away, but she didn't dare, couldn't bear the thought of the damage that might inflict. His free hand rested against her navel, drifting upwards enough to allow him to briefly caress her other breast; then it slipped downward once more, sliding the dress over her hips.

  
  


Michelle began to shiver as she felt it whisper down her legs; she stood naked, surrounded by a pile of costly, ruined fabric, while a monster did its best to make love to her. She couldn't even feel the air against her skin; it must have been cold, that far below the earth, but she couldn't tell. The trembling seemed uncontrollable; it tightened in her chest, winding ever more taut, until she was certain that it would burst free in sobs. She stood still, letting him touch her, letting him stroke her, and waited for the inevitable.

  
  


No. _No, no, no. _She'd had enough of that; hadn't she promised herself she had? That was the problem, wasn't it? Her choice. Her will. Her act. This was who she was. This was where she'd placed herself; the circumstances might not be fair, but nothing in life was.

  
  


This was what she'd set out to do.

  
  


This was going to be worth it.

  
  


The thought galvanized her; there was no force on earth that could make this be _alright, _but it was going to be okay; it was something that, one day, she would look back on without despair. This had a point, this had a purpose, this—

  
  


His hand circled the back of her neck, rubbing her gently; his claws tickled against her collarbone. She shivered, tossing her head in an involuntary jerk away from him. His grip tightened, pulling her down towards him; her hip barked against the cool stone of the plinth. She remembered when it had been wood; when he had thrown her down, before she realized what he meant to do, and—

  
  


_No. _She shoved him back, fisting her hands in the fabric of his shirt and, before either of them had a chance to react, kissed him fiercely, as hungrily as she had ever fallen on the throat of a victim. He responded eagerly, burying one hand in her hair while he wrapped the other around her waist. This was insane, this was _terrible,_ and she needed to keep moving forward quickly enough that those realizations could not catch up with her.

  
  


She quickly stepped out of the dress, raising one knee and bracing it against the plinth, so that she half-straddled him. His nails dug into her hip, piercing tiny, bloodless wounds; she was so fraught that she felt them only as more sensation, burning stars against her skin. She pushed him back further, hoisting herself up as she did; she knelt over him and raked her nails down his back as he lapped at her, covering her throat and the tops of her breasts with ardent kisses. The arm around her waist tightened enough that she fell forward, catching herself against his chest; he nipped at her neck, her shoulders, his fingers tracing fire along her flesh.

  
  


Her hands slipped down his flanks, the inhuman arch of his ribs beneath fabric scarcely noticeable this time; things she thought she could never believe had a habit of becoming commonplace where he was concerned. _No, no, no_—she couldn't feel a belt; she made her hands continue their circuit until her fingers found his fly. She pressed her face against his hair, concentrating on the odd flow of sensations as the strands played across her features rather than what her hands were doing, what _she _was doing—

  
  


The skin beneath her hand was smooth and cool; he made a soft, startled groan as her fingers made contact. Surprisingly soft skin gave way to coarse hair; he caught her earlobe between his teeth as he leaned back slightly, helping her ease the trousers past his hips. She set her jaw as she let her hand slip lower still; it was inevitable. There was no getting away from it.

  
  


Yet what she encountered was startling enough to freeze her for a moment: the flesh in her hand was loose and slack, with no sign of the urgency she'd thought she'd been provoking. She rolled him gently in her hand, uncertain. The thought of how easy it would be to clench her hand into a fist, to let her nails shear through that delicate skin, was almost overwhelming. She began to withdraw her hand, for fear of making it a reality, but he caught her wrist lightly. She thought for a moment that her hand had clenched of its own volition, but soon realized that he was swelling beneath her grip.

  
  


She shuddered, but he pulled her closer, mistaking her reaction for passion; his lips fastened on the hollow of her throat, his tongue scraping against her as she was confronted with proof of his interest. _Blood flow, _she thought, her mind racing; it was easier to think of as a biological problem._ Why shouldn't it be voluntary?_ So many differences, so many questions she'd probably never get the answers to now, one way or the other; it was almost enough to make her regret what was to come. But she didn't have time for that, not now; his arm slipped beneath her buttocks, raising her up; she balled her hands into fists as she braced her forearms against his shoulders; fought off one last mad urge to tear his throat out as—

  
  


It didn't hurt. She hadn't really expected it to, but the lack of pain still surprised her on some level. She wasn't aroused, wasn't wet, but that had never stopped her before; it was merely the sensation of _invasion_, the feel of something _within _her, the low, throaty moan he gave as her thighs settled against his, that set her nerves alight. She thought she was going to scream—to _howl—_but all that emerged was a half-strangled whimper. He cupped the back of her head, pressing her cheek against his own; she was not certain if his sharp intake of breath was a gasp or the preface to speech, but he said nothing. His lips brushed against the curve of her jaw as he shifted his grip, enfolding her in a tight embrace.

  
  


She couldn't have said how long they remained in that still moment of penetration; too long. Long enough for her thoughts to catch up with her; long enough for her to think about what was happening, what she was _doing_; long enough for tears to threaten, for her skin to crawl with the need to be _away._

  
  


_No, no, no. _Perhaps he too felt that the newness, the _strangeness,_ had gone on long enough; perhaps he simply felt her tense. As she shifted her weight onto her knees, he arched against her with a soft growl. She gasped, sinking her nails into his shoulders; the depth, the friction, the inescapable fact of who it was beneath her... She bit her lip, throwing her head back. _No, no, no._

  
  


She bucked her hips, eliciting another, stronger growl; his fingers clutched spasmodically, slithering across her back, and she made herself continue. Images flickered through her mind as her pace increased, other men, other encounters; she thought perhaps to lose herself in a more fondly recollected assignation, but it was impossible; nothing compared to this, nothing could stand in for it, even in her imagination; she was trapped in this moment, and would have to find her way through to the other side of it.

  
  


Her pace increased, driving, almost frantic; she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing close against him for balance as she rocked against him. He gave up all pretense of following her rhythm, simply letting her move while he covered her neck in kisses. She closed her eyes, but it only forced her to focus on the sounds, and the eerie silence that framed them: there was no panting, no gasping for breath, no cries of pleasure; simply the soft wet sound of flesh, his and hers, contesting and commingling. It was almost more overwhelming than the actual sensations, the play of muscles, the feel of him within her, the essentials of the act reduced to a quiet chorus of slaps and rustles. She opened her eyes once more, staring past him, ignoring the brush of his hair against her cheek; she could barely make out the far wall of the room, in the darkness she'd requested, and did not know if that was better or worse.

  
  


He nipped her sharply, hard enough to have drawn blood had it been his fangs, rather than his incisors, and the pain was enough to drag her from her dismal reverie. Her body kept moving, as if of its own accord, as his thin, bony fingers dug into her waist; with a hoarse, choking growl, he shuddered against her, his claws scoring her hard enough to leave weals, sizzling discomfort in the wake of the bite, as he pressed his face into the curve of her shoulder.

  
  


And that was that.

  
  


She found that she was trembling too, exertion, revulsion, terror, adrenaline... she led her head loll forward, unable to think, unable to figure out what to do next. _This is it, _she told herself, dazed. _This is it. I did it._

  
  


Somehow, she could not find it in herself to be proud of her achievement.

  
  


She hoped that Zachary and Sofia were long gone already. That was something to be proud of, wasn't it?

  
  


Radu lifted his head slowly, the movement stirring her hair against her shoulders; she shivered anew at the touch of her own curls. With that brief, nearly casual touch, it suddenly became too much, too real, too—she straightened abruptly, the feeling of him moving within her almost enough to wrench a cry from her lips; she could feel the slick wetness within her, coating the tops of her thighs, the weight of his body against hers, the feel of his clothes against her skin—she was going to start screaming, now, scream and scream and _scream—_

  
  


His grip on her waist shifted slightly; she nearly retched at the awful feeling of one of his claws withdrawing from the runnel it had gouged in her flesh—but he was lifting her gently, helping her rise—she could not restrain a sob of relief when she felt him slip from within her. He slid an arm beneath her thighs, and her mind blazed with futile, thoughtless terror, able only to interpret it as some further horror; but he merely lifted her, disentangling their limbs somehow, and eased her down beside him. She leaned back out of habit, lifting her legs so that he could withdraw his arm, but his hand settled on her shoulder, gently pressing her down.

  
  


She lay there numbly, so awash in dread at the thought of what was to come that she was unable to process what was actually happening. He laid down behind her, slowly lowering himself to the stone of the plinth. She heard a soft rustle of fabric, and then felt an arm around her waist; he gathered her close, pressing himself against her back, an almost perfect recreation of the way they had lain at twilight.

  
  


His fingers spread in a bony fan, settling lightly upon her as he stroked her hair. “Love,” he whispered.

  
  


The arm around her tightened as he shifted again, molding his body against hers. She drew her knees up to her chest, curling around herself in the instinctive hope of some scant protection. She wanted to climb out of her skin; she let him hold her instead.

  
  


They lay silently; the only sound was the soft movement of his hand against her hair. It drove home, once again, the inhumanity, the _futility_ of the act; there was no sound of breathing slowing, of heartbeats returning to their normal pace; no sweat sheened her skin. They were both as still and unmoved as the corpses they should have been.

  
  


Her eyes burned. She wrapped her arms around her knees.

  
  


_Now what?_ She made herself think it, repeated it over and over in her mind until the words began to make some kind of sense; but even as she came to understand the question, she remained unable to answer it. She couldn't even get _dressed; _it had been hard enough to come by the clothes she'd wrecked in her brawl with Zachary. How exactly was she supposed to accomplish everything she still needed to when she had thus far been unable to so much as find a decent pair of shoes?

  
  


No. _No. _She'd gotten this far; she was successful, if not necessarily safe; she could get farther still, if she remained clever and brave. She couldn't go to pieces, couldn't give up. Not now. Not after that.

  
  


She tensed anew as he shifted against her, moving his head to nuzzle her shoulder. She didn't think about that, didn't think about what he'd said; she simply remained as still as the grave, letting him do as he would. She entertained some vague hope that her lack of reaction would dissuade him, but knew it was hopeless when she felt him rise, propping himself up on an elbow.

  
  


The touch that brushed her hair away was so light that she felt nothing but the movement; his lips against her throat were barely more perceptible. He remained that way for a long moment, before he lifted his head, just enough to whisper in her ear. “There is pleasure to be found in my kiss,” he said, his voice unsteady, “if you can but seek it.” His mouth traced the curve of her neck once more; he caught the skin above her artery lightly between his teeth, and held it, pulling gently, as if awaiting a response.

  
  


Michelle was so horrified that there was none she could make; of course this was what he wanted, of _course _he'd interpreted her behavior as free license to—it was almost enough to win a hysterical giggle from her. Clever and brave? Deluded and wishful. She was never going to be able to out-think a creature as ancient and alien as he; she was never truly going to be able to predict what he'd do. Now her plotting and planning, her endurance and fortitude, had placed her, quite literally, in the jaws of the beast, and she could see no way to win free.

  
  


She couldn't give up. Not _now. _

  
  


His teeth closed on her throat more firmly, pressure just this side of pain; when she made no response, he released her, nuzzling her once again. The rough skin of his palm slid along her thigh, easing her leg down; she let him do it; let him touch her; let it happen. There was nothing else she could do.

  
  


His mouth fastened on her throat once more; kissing, licking, sucking, biting. The flats of his fangs pressed against her ever more frequently, but never pierced her; this was a different sort of foreplay, one whose patterns she could not begin to guess at.

  
  


She suspected she was beginning to understand the roughness of her tongue, however: when his fangs finally sank into her throat, her stimulated skin barely registered it.

  
  


There was nothing that could compare to the feeling of that old ivory moving within her; penetration, _domination_, a violation of the most vulnerable place on her body, an invasion that should have killed her, but could not; _would _not. She gave a strangled cry as his teeth withdrew, writhing against him. He held her tightly, pressing her against himself as his mouth sealed around the wounds he'd made; he moaned, low and liquid, as he began to suck.

  
  


Her thoughts reeled as she succumbed once again to that loathsome, dizzy nausea; to the draining, enervating lassitude that always overwhelmed her when he used her this way. She hated it, more than anything else; the idea that he could undo her so easily, the idea that someone suffered this slow, stuporous death every time she fed, the idea that this unnatural, _unholy _feeling was now a part of what passed for her life; it was the ultimate experience that defined how hopeless and irreparable her situation had become. There was nothing human in this; there was nothing human in the desire, the ecstasy, the _need _she sensed from him, nor in its utter, animal fulfillment. No corpse could feel this way. She shouldn't be able to. She should be as moveless as marble; this shouldn't affect her, not in the slightest.

  
  


But it did. It went beyond any violation she had ever dreamed might be possible; worse than rape, worse than violence. It was _submission; _yielding weakness, _allowing _him to feast upon her, helpless to resist. Somehow, somewhere deep within her, it felt _right_; some insane, inhuman instinct accepted it as her due. It galled her; it _excoriated _her. She could never hate him as much as she did herself.

  
  


His mouth worked her neck with bruising force; cold, dead blood did not flow easily. He leaned against her even as he clutched her ever more tightly, nearly rolling her onto her belly. She wondered, as his arm slipped beneath her neck, propping her up for easier access, what he found so intoxicating; if he were as informed as he truly claimed, there was no way he could miss the taste of her revulsion; she could think of no way to make her blood lie.

  
  


Claws brushed her shoulder; she opened her eyes to see his arm before her, the sleeve pulled back by the strange angle at which it wrapped around her. The pale, wan flesh stood out to her as if illuminated, yet she could see no veins within, simply the stark, unyielding lines of his bones. She rolled her eyes, trying to look away, but his hand gripped her shoulder, drawing his wrist closer to her face, and only then did she realize what he offered.

  
  


Turning to hide her face against his bicep, she was revolted at the idea; a dead circuit, a commingling of corpses. But even as her stomach wrenched, her throat grew dry and aching at the thought. As much as she hated what it meant, she had not fed since the night before, and that scantly; she was going to need every ounce of strength she could muster for what lay ahead of her. Why shouldn't it be stolen?

  
  


She couldn't bring herself to kiss him. She grabbed his elbow to hold him in place, and latched on to his wrist with the implacable fury of a lamprey. She knew a moment's disgust at the feeling of his papery skin shredding between her fangs... and then she scarcely knew anything at all.

  
  


There was no denying how much she had always gloried in the taste of his blood; her inability to rationalize the overpowering, awesome addictiveness of it was what had finally prompted her to declare her undying hatred of him. So much strength, so much _power, _such an ancient, ageless vintage; it was almost as if she could feel the individual years trickling down her throat, imparting a share of the wisdom and ferocity that had allowed him to survive them.

  
  


This time, it was so much more. Even caught in a paroxysm of sensation, she thought briefly of the girl last night, insofar as she was able to think of anything; it was the same, somehow, yet amplified almost beyond the bounds of sanity. She knew, on some level, that opening her night-eyes to experience him as only another vampire could would break her, but the temptation was still nearly impossible. This was pleasure and _surcease_ and bliss and _satiation _and delight and _comfort _and—and—and—

  
  


Tearing herself free was one of the hardest things she had ever done in her life, but she managed, somehow, gathering her elbows beneath her chest and forcing herself away. His fangs tore through her neck as she wrenched herself forward; she welcomed the pain, seized on it, used it as an anchor to claw her way back to reality. But his blood still coated her mouth, carrying with it that inundation of things that could not be, strong enough to drown her; she coughed, made herself retch as she struggled upright. His blood spattered against her chest as she struggled to rid herself of it; dripped down her chin in long, thin streamers. She could not bring herself to raise a hand to wipe it away; it was all she could do to hold onto herself, to remember _who _she was, and why.

  
  


Radu's fingers remained on her shoulder. She expected anger, but he, too, seemed dazed by her reaction; the hair hanging in front of his face hid whatever expression she might have been able to make out in the darkness. Yet his touch remained gentle, the arm around her waist supportive, rather than constrictive; she didn't struggle as he turned her, slowly, so that she lay on her back once more. She shivered as his hair brushed her belly; it became uncontrollable trembling as she felt the wet rasp of his tongue on her skin. She could do nothing but stay as still as she could, shaking as badly as she was, as he lapped his own blood from her breasts, consuming his rejection as tenderly as he might have mother's milk.

  
  


He worked his way upwards, slowly, methodically; her collarbone, her throat, her jaw. He kissed the lobe of her ear, pressing his face against her. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice throaty and rich, “you understand now.”

  
  


Her tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth; she groped frantically for some kind of response. “Perhaps,” she managed. She didn't know what to say, didn't know what he wanted; she shut her mouth, shut her eyes, and concentrated on nothing more than getting her trembling limbs under control.

  
  


Yet he seemed content with that; he waited a moment, his lips against her ear, and then slowly lowered her to the plinth. A brief movement, and he was wrapped around her once more. His hand settled on her hair again, but this time, the path of his gentle stroking continued; his palm described the curve of her breast, the valley of her waist, the swell of her hip.

  
  


Michelle lay still, her hands balled into fists against her breasts, and tried to concentrate on nothing more than the sensations she could not escape. It was almost soothing; soft, light touches, not quite tickling, not quite kneading. It was too much; she could not think, not any more, not right now. She needed to be blank, if only for a few moments; needed to find some hidden well of strength to draw from when it came time to internalize the truth of what she had done, what she had felt.

  
  


_No. _Nothing. Just for a little while.

  
  


It was surprisingly easy to drift. There came a point where the human mind reached its limit, and refused to accept anything else it could not easily process; she had nearly reached that point, and was glad enough to take advantage of the hazy numbness it offered. She simply lay, and was touched; she was a visceral being, unwilling and incapable of morality, thought, planning. It was almost restful.

  
  


She was detached enough that Radu raising his head did not immediately alarm her; his fingers draped over her hip, brushing against the mound of her pubis, was unpleasant, but not intolerable. When her ears registered the faint thumping, even that did not perturb her; she wrote it off to the pipes, a quieter replay of the horrific noise that had greeted her rising.

  
  


Radu was gone so quickly she was scarcely able to comprehend what had just happened.

  
  


Michelle sat upright quickly, struggling to marshal her thoughts into some kind of order as her ears strained for some indication of what was going on. She could hear nothing, no movement, no thumping—no. That had to be his hand on the latch.

  
  


She froze, paralyzed by the weight of the situation crashing down on her. It wasn't as if the paperboy was calling; this couldn't be good. Could it? Iris had come down here, but even she had never crossed the threshold. The Oracle?

  
  


_Zachary._

  
  


Her heart leapt at the notion, even as she told herself it was impossible. He couldn't know this place was here, couldn't guess—but what if he had made one of them tell him? Would he really do that? He might. But even if he had been able to win his way through, even if he had been able to eradicate the entire nest, she could never make herself believe he was capable of handling Radu on his own.

  
  


She was on her feet in an instant, scrabbling through the pile of fabric on the floor; the dress was hopeless, but she shook the coat free. She was shrugging it on even as she dashed from the room, disregarding the buttons and clutching it closed over her chest like a robe as she darted down the hall. She could leap on Radu as she emerged into the antechamber, but if Zachary was close to him, and had the sword out, as he surely must—her stomach roiled at the memory of Cassandra's ruined body. She couldn't replicate what Radu had done on her best day; she didn't think—she _hoped—_that even he would be able to do so, had he been the one injured.

  
  


It didn't matter; she would do what needed to be done. She skidded to a halt, slitting her eyes against the light of the lamps, as Radu pulled the door open; she could lunge, she could leap, she could—

  
  


—stare, dumbfounded, at what awaited them on the other side.

  
  


The man was alive; without the encumbrance of the heavy door shielding them, it was a wonder that his pounding heartbeat did not deafen them. She could see the beads of sweat on his shaven scalp; his fear was so evident she could taste it in the back of her mouth. He was dressed in the simple, formal livery of the club, and his trembling was only barely perceptible in the tray he proffered them; she could only see the ripples in the dark, red liquid the glasses contained.

  
  


Her eyes darted between the man and Radu; she suddenly _knew, _with the clarity of a memory, that this was going to be the last thing this man ever did. It didn't matter what she tried; Radu was far too close to him for her to ever get between them in time.

  
  


The man's eyes fastened on her; she supposed she was far easier to face. “Please,” he said, extending the tray to her. “From the mistress.”

  
  


She stayed still, watching Radu carefully from the corner of her eye; he had made no movement since opening the door, but that didn't mean anything where the man's safety was concerned. Finally, unable to bear the mounting tension, she stepped forward and plucked one of the glasses from the tray. With a sudden burst of inspiration, she turned and offered it to Radu. He turned to regard her, an almost dubious expression on his face; but after a long moment, he accepted it. Relieved, she took the other for herself. “Thank you,” she said. “You may go.”

  
  


He withdrew the tray, but remained where he was, unhappiness writ large upon his features. “The mistress,” he repeated uncertainly; his accent was so heavy that she wasn't sure he was able to communicate whatever message he had been given. “There have been a—a accident,” he said miserably. “She thought it would be—a shame to, to waste...”

  
  


“Dmitri.” Radu's voice was low and thick, quivering with rage. He dashed the glass to the floor; the man flinched as it shattered on the stone, splattering blood across his legs. Michelle was certain that would be it—that flinch would be all it took to have Radu down upon her—but he merely turned back to her; when he spoke, his voice was light, almost pleasant. “My dear,” he practically purred, “it seems we must rejoin the party.”

  
  


She blinked; he was gone, as if he had never been. She and the hapless waiter were left to stare at one another, equally uncomprehending.

  
  


_Zachary. _God, let it be true.

  
  


_Help. _


	9. Chapter 9

Michelle gaped helplessly at the waiter, struggling to marshal her thoughts into some kind of order. His own distress proved comforting, in its way; the terrified pounding of his heart, the sawing rasp of his breath as he clutched the tray against his chest, were enough to drown out the fragmented whirl that throbbed within her skull.

“Thank you,” she forced herself to say. The low, breathy sound of her voice was enough to make him flinch; unable to risk the thin shell of calm she had managed to retain on a stranger, she promptly stepped back and slammed the door shut with a hollow, echoing clang.

Turning, she braced her back against the door and allowed her muscles to sag, sliding down so that her weight rested on her shoulders. _One thing at a time, _she told herself, as she stared sightlessly into the dimness of the lair, _one thing at a time. Think!_

Zachary had to be in the building; Zachary had to have done that; the universe would never be so cruel as to make this demonstration the product of random violence when she was hoping so desperately for some sign of relief.

Zachary was there. Zachary had, at least, _been _there.

It was enough to wring a strangled laugh from her. Perhaps he'd had plans of his own; perhaps he had already been and gone, Sofia in tow, and left her to make what she could of the situation.

And perhaps he'd failed. Perhaps he was even now choking on what little remained of his life; perhaps he was already dust and bones.

Only one way to find out.

Fabric brushed against her bare legs as she rose to her feet, stopping her in her tracks. Her hands flew to her chest, clutching the coat's collar; it was voluminous enough that—no. She was not going to risk whatever confrontation might be awaiting her upstairs while she was barely dressed; she _couldn't. _Her hands balled into fists as she wasted a precious moment on panicked frustration; she didn't know what else to do, except—

She was bolting towards the back of the lair before she had time to finish the thought, her feet far ahead of her mind. She barreled past the wardrobe she'd managed to scrounge the dress and coat from and skidded to a halt before the one she'd seen Radu remove the coffer from. Wrenching the door open with a squeal of tortured hinges, she was rewarded with what she'd sought; she shrugged off the coat and snatched a crisp white shirt from a folded pile, slipping it on and buttoning it as quickly as she could make her fingers work. She had to cuff the trousers severely to keep them from underfoot, but even in her current state of mounting terror, the simple pleasure of _pants _was enough to give her a giddy thrill; she could climb stairs, she could jump, she could _run. _

Shoes were out of the question, but she was already so used to doing practically without that the thought scarcely crossed her mind. As she spun on her bare heel, the coat she'd dropped on the floor shifted beneath her foot with a slippery, slithery feeling, and the soft scrape of metal on stone.

_Mel's medal. _She was on her knees, scrabbling amidst the folds of the coat, before she realized that she meant to do it; a sudden, insane, immutable refusal to allow this small thing to be taken away from her, as so much else had been. She'd slipped it into a tear in the lining; it had been wedged against the button band, but her searching fingers could find no sign of it now. She thrust a hand into another hole in the satin, feeling for it; her hands closed around a soft lump that she took for padding until she felt it crackle against her palm.

Michelle stared uncomprehendingly at the wadded white fabric in her hand for a moment, before the dark, dry stain jogged her memory: this was Sofia's handkerchief, the one that Zachary had given her... Sofia's blood. Mel's medal lay nestled in its folds, as if it had been deliberately placed there.

Almost unconsciously, she shoved it back into the tear from which she'd withdrawn it; she could not have said why, but it felt _right. _She lifted the coat with her as she rose, pulled it back on as she made her way back to the lair's exit. Camouflage. Good luck charm. It didn't matter. The only thing that did awaited her seven floors above; she was as prepared for it as she could make herself.

She wrenched the door open and burst into the narthex, her bare feet slapping on the rough stone as the coat swirled around her ankles. She caught no sign of Radu, nor of the waiter, though the acrid scent of his fear scourged her throat, prickling along her tightly-wound nerves like electricity as she sucked in a deep lungful of dusty air. She picked up speed, pumping her elbows and mounting the staircase with a leap; she took the rest three at a time, reveling in the free, easy play of her muscles. Never mind what she was moving toward; for this moment, it was good enough to _move._

The door to the fourth level stood ajar; she plunged through it heedlessly, and then nearly lost her balance as the realization of what that might mean sent her skidding to a halt. She flailed her arms, her ankles bending at nearly impossible angles and then, her common sense catching up with her, she allowed herself to melt, pouring herself rapidly into the shadows that lined the hall.

Michelle settled into the deepest pool she could find, straining her senses for any sign of occupation. Perhaps it had been the waiter; perhaps Radu had left it open, in his haste to answer the mysterious message of those glasses; perhaps she was about to walk into a battle. She listened as carefully as she could, expecting the clangor of metal, shouts, screams... but there was nothing; nothing at all. She might have been alone, with Ash's luxurious abode all to herself.

As terrifying as the prospect was, she couldn't risk being wrong. With an internal shudder, she swayed lightly, orienting herself, and opened her night-eyes.

The acid stains of color were enough to send her cringing back into the darkness; she'd never done it while insubstantial, hadn't thought it would matter, but the mere act of looking was enough to bite into her vision like serrated teeth. She shut them once more, concentrating on her other senses; on the preternatural way she had of _knowing _what was around her.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Startled and unnerved, she carefully extended her grasp, easing her perception further and higher as she failed to find any evidence of occupation. She wondered briefly if there was more to Club Muse's security than the doors—if she had been blinded somehow—but—no, there was the waiter, hurriedly climbing the stairs above her; there were a handful of other little lives, going about their business as if there was nothing amiss.

But there were no vampires; not even on the second level, their apartments, where she had expected at least Cassandra would be reposing. Could it be that she was only unable to detect them?

Could they all be out chasing Zachary? Was this her cue to snatch Sofia and run? Where _was _Sofia? She swirled uncertainly, anxious; Sofia should have been here at the end of the hall, in Ash's chambers, but Michelle was most definitely alone. She must have been taken somewhere... _or she's dead, _her traitorous thoughts whispered, _she's dead already and it was all for nothing and you're going to die screaming. _

“No,” Michelle whispered, startling herself with the sound. She had been concentrating so hard on her search she hadn't realized she had gradually sieved back into solidity; but she found herself glad of it now, the floor beneath her feet and the wall against her back providing solid anchors to reality. Madness or stupidity, she was going to bluff this hand as far as she was able. _You never get last minute miracles unless you hang around for them_, she told herself, forcing a grin; riding high on a combination of fear, anticipation, and Radu's ancient blood, it was easy to pretend to believe it.

_One more time. Come on, Zach, give me something..._ She squared her shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut and focusing her thoughts as narrowly as she could, grasping at any foreign strand of identity that brushed against her consciousness. Nothing, no one that she hadn't run across before—she strained, reaching upward, outward—

—and gasped, clutching at her chest; had she not already been leaning against the wall, she would have fallen. Her mind felt crisped and sore; she'd been right to be afraid. _All of them, _she thought, dazed. At least, she was willing to bet it was; that much age and power was far too much for her to attempt to sift through and identify. All those centuries... all that strength... all those _predators, _surrounded by an unwitting gaggle of human revelers.

She shoved herself upright and was on the move before she had a chance to finish the thought, unwilling to let her imagination paint the picture for her. Zachary had been bold—or stupid—enough to march up to the front door; he had _said _he meant to tackle the denizens of Club Muse head on. It had never crossed her mind that he might be foolhardy enough to reveal himself in front of such a large, unsuspecting audience... but if they were even simply preparing to tear into one another up there...

Michelle _ran. _

Images flicked by in her peripheral vision, but she paid them no heed. She focused only on the path directly in front of her, stairs to climb, more doors left ajar; Radu must have torn through this place even more quickly than she, to leave such well-built defenses rendered useless. She toyed briefly with flight, but discarded it; she'd lose more time reforming to wrestle a door open than she would just using her momentum against it. She was intoxicated by the play of her own muscles against one another; the speed, the _strength _she was able to harness. It was impossible not to realize that she was stronger and faster than her form gave her any right to be, but she had never truly put herself to the test; even now, moving more rapidly than anyone with a beating heart could ever dream of doing, she felt not the slightest strain. Perhaps she could pick up a car and throw it. Perhaps she would get the opportunity to find out, if she survived.

The buzzing roar of the crowd in the club greeted her as she made the second floor, but it was only enough to make her grit her teeth, even backed by an unusual, thin whine that threaded through the crash of sound like catgut; it seemed strange to her now that the simple sound of voices could have caused her such distress. Fear for innocent lives had a wonderfully bracing effect. She grinned at her own foul humor, lips skinning back across her teeth; she skidded neatly to a halt as she reached the door that barred her from them, bracing a hand against the lever. She couldn't just go rushing out there—but if they were fighting, she'd need to—

Never _mind. _Without allowing the old doubts a chance to creep in, she rolled her shoulders back, set her chin, and yanked the door open, striding out into battle.

The wave of sound washed over her, but the apparent normalcy of the sight that greeted her was even more shocking. Even with her nerves strung taut as barbed wire, every sense straining for signs of trouble, she could at first not even spot any of the others; the only thing out of place seemed to be the addition of a live string quartet, which sounded as if it were stationed at the far corner of the room. She scanned the crowd once more, but could determine nothing; could she have been wrong? Could they have moved?

Uncertain, she began to make her way along the edge of the room as surreptitiously as she could; she debated ducking from alcove to alcove, as soon as she felt the brush of fabric and emptiness at her back, before deciding it would be too conspicuous. The club seemed packed to the gills, at least twice as many people as she'd ever seen, and she wondered why.; perhaps it was simply a usual Saturday night turnout. She was surprised and a little saddened to realize that she didn't have the slightest idea; times beyond sunset and sunrise had long since ceased to matter to her.

Her eyes never left the milling crowd before her, wary for both a sight of her targets and an unfortunate advance of the type she had experienced earlier in the evening, but nothing registered. Her fists clenched involuntarily as her unease mounted, her circuit of the room continuing to yield nothing. Iris's office, maybe; maybe they were cautious enough to refrain from quarreling in front of the guests—no, _there._

Michelle perked up; Ash's auburn ringlets were unmistakable, even at a brief glance; the movement of the crowd allowed her a glimpse of his sculpted profile, as if she had needed more evidence. His head was bent, his lips moving as if he spoke to someone—she couldn't see who—with great earnestness, but his expression betrayed no hint of discomposure; if anything, he seemed amused, as if restraining his humor from someone he didn't quite dare to laugh at. Never taking her eyes from him, she began to circle once more, jockeying for a sight of whomever it was that accompanied him—

—and nearly screamed at the pressure of fingers on her elbow. She whirled, raising her fists instinctively to confront whoever had dared to—but, of course, it was Radu, watching the same proceedings as she from the relative security of one of the curtained alcoves.

She fell back automatically, ducking beneath one of the swags of velvet to retreat into the bit of obscurity they provided. She kept her eyes forward, fixed on Ash, telling herself she sought some indication as to what was happening, knowing it was because she couldn't bear to look at Radu. “What's going on?” she asked in a whisper.

“Something that most of us shall find quite regrettable,” he answered, and Michelle glanced up at him in shock; she had rarely heard that sort of pure, dripping malevolence in his voice before. “As to why...” He shook his head tightly. “That, we shall have to discover.” His eyes never left the crowd before him, but he reached for her, the backs of his nails brushing the curve of her jaw; she shuddered, but would not allow herself to flinch.

Her mind churned, seeking to make sense of the unexpected situation she had walked into. What could be so important that Ash would make Radu wait this way, without even an intermediary to—she nearly gasped as the crowd gave her another glimpse of his face and the realization sunk in. Even now, Radu lurked out of sight; she remembered their swift, furtive passage through the room to visit the Oracle.

Ash wasn't busy; he was hiding in plain sight, trusting in Radu's reticence to expose himself to keep himself free, at least for a little while. Whatever was going on, he wanted his master to have no part in it.

As if in answer to her suspicion, the moving figures parted enough to give her the first clear view of the tableau; Ash was speaking to a man she didn't recognize, someone human. As he sensed the crowd's movement, his eyes raised, sweeping over the crowd; he met her gaze directly before returning his attention to the conversation. He knew very well that they were there.

Iris stood at his side, tall and erect; his fingers circled her wrist lightly, a seemingly casual, friendly gesture, if one did not know what kind of pressure those elegant musician's hands could exert. Her expression was carefully neutral, the professional mask she almost invariably showed the world, but her eyes shone with some unnameable emotion; perhaps even the glitter of unshed tears. Michelle herself felt a strange, gnawing pang when she realized that Cassandra stood with them as well, almost lurking at the edge of the group. She was no more pale or wan than usual, but the dark circles around her eyes spoke more of suffering than of makeup. She wore a long dress that covered her from throat to heel, so it was impossible to guess at the state of her injuries, but Michelle had to turn away regardless, lest she catch a hint of concavity.

She caught a flash of movement in the corner of her eye as she did so, and stepped back, jostling Radu; he caught her hips, steadying her as she found herself face to face with someone she'd never expected to see again.

Her mouth fell open in dumb, inchoate shock as she realized what she was seeing; she reached out to touch its frame in childlike wonder, the woman in the mirror's arm moving in perfect synchronicity. There were no mirrors in Castle Vladislas, nor in their chambers below; it had never even occurred to her to look, because everyone _knew _that—

The woman she beheld was nearly a stranger to her; she reached out to lay her fingers against the glass, scarcely able to believe it wasn't some sort of trick. This woman looked _ferocious, _high cheekbones and strong jaw framed by a wave of dark curls; her eyes gleamed, her lips so scarlet they seemed livid. This was no grad student; this was no every day woman from the Eastern Seaboard, this was... was... “I—I didn't think we could,” she whispered, a superstitious thrill running along her spine as the woman's lips moved perfectly in time with her own.

Radu shifted, one arm slipping around her waist as he leaned down; his face appearing beside her own in the glass dispelled any lingering confusion. “Hmm.” His patrician, inhuman features were quickly obscured as he reached up to brush his wavy hair into his face; save for the slightly simian bulge of his lips over his tusks, it was astonishing how quickly his monstrosity could be disguised, if only superficially. He gazed into the mirror for another moment as if admiring the figure he cut, his hands moving to rest lightly on her elbows; then, very carefully, he eased himself aside.

She could see the crowd once more through the curtains, an endless whirl of dark-clad men, broken up here and there by the jewel-tones of a woman. There was Iris, as coiffed and implacable as ever; and there was—

This time she did gasp, jerking away from the mirror; Radu's hands fell away, but she was riveted by the sight. She had thought that Zachary, upon the eve of their first meeting, was as gruesome and rotten as a vampire could appear; she had been terribly, terribly wrong. Ash was not simply mummified; he looked—_shredded, _as if his ancient, leathery hide had simply given up the struggle after so many centuries of use, nose and ears long since sloughed away. Yellow bone gleamed through his skin in ragged patches; she caught a glimpse of teeth through his cheek as his mouth moved, speaking as pleasantly as ever to a man who had no idea what a ghoul he conversed with. But the true horror, the final, nightmarish absurdity that had her clenching her teeth on a scream, was his hair; as perfect and shining as ever, even as it framed a visage from the depths of hell.

A black-gloved hand reached out for him, its owner turning to enter the mirror's view, and she squeezed her eyes shut, finally turning away; she could not bear to see Cassandra that way.

Radu's long, spidery fingers slithered along her bicep as he reached up to cup her elbow. “Come along,” he said quietly.

She kept her eyes closed as he steered her out of the alcove; but the tension, the pure, crackling _rage _that built up over those few brief steps was enough to make her force them open. The bloody, public battle she had expected might still be in the offing; she would have to prevent it, if she could, and had to glean every bit of information she could in the process.

Iris saw them first, watching carefully, but gave absolutely no indication to Ash, whose hand still gripped her wrist; Michelle wondered, then, what she might have done to earn his ire. Had she not bothered to inform him of Zachary's initial visit, when she had banished him from the hall? Had she somehow bungled his capture tonight?

_From the mistress, _the frightened waiter's voice echoed in her mind. _A shame to waste it. _Michelle nearly stumbled as she she realized the implications. She had not expected to see either of the lesser vampires, but if Cassandra were able to rise from her sickbed, chances were that Dmitri could have done so as well... but had not. Had Zachary butchered him in a full-on assault? Or had he simply not survived the trauma of what Radu had done to him?

She quailed internally as her imagination unfolded a bleak series of events before her. Dmitri died of—of whatever that had been, and Ash was angry over it; had expected him to survive, or had decided that in retrospect that he'd sacrificed the wrong fledgling. Iris had sent them Dmitri's blood as—what? A trophy, a warning?

Zachary might never have shown up at all.

Ash caught sight of them, finally, and it was all she could do not to shrink from him, even as his eyes widened in surprise; as beautiful as he was, as heartening as it was to see honest discomfort on his face, she could never, ever, forget the brief glance of him she'd seen in the mirror. _Legends don't have to be factual, _she thought dazedly, _they just have to be true enough. _She refused to allow herself to contemplate why she had looked the way she had; she was young. She would continue to be young for... _never mind. Oh, God, never mind. _

The man Ash had been speaking with still chattered away animatedly, seemingly oblivious to his host's discomfiture; Michelle was wondering if she could somehow distract him herself when Radu solved the problem by simply seizing him by the back of the collar and flinging him away. “_Messieur!” _he squawked, all shocked effrontery, “how _dare _you behave in such a fashion?”

Radu advanced on him, one easy, fluid pace. “If God is good to you,” he said as he leaned forward, putting them nearly nose to nose, “you will never find out.” His hair still hung in front of his face, but whatever the man could see of him, it was enough; he backed away slowly, diving into the relative safety of the crowd as soon as he could. Radu straightened and turned back.

Ash's jaw was clenched in fury; Michelle saw a muscle in his jaw twitch at the same moment Iris gave a sharp, hurt gasp, but his voice was flawless perfection as he said, “We agreed long ago that you would not—”

Radu cut him off with a sharp wave, bony fingers fanning in negation; when Ash remained silent, he slowly folded his arms to hide his hands, as if sheathing weapons. Their gazes locked, and Michelle could practically feel the anger and tension rolling off them both. “What is the meaning of your... _gift?”_

To his credit, Ash's stare never wavered. “You have never taken an interest in the running of the club,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a small child, “and I see no reason that that should change.”

Radu straightened, lifting his chin, and Michelle involuntarily fell back a step; the two were so focused on each other that neither seemed to notice. She had never expected this to have a happy resolution, but for Ash to be so flagrantly hostile... She knew very well what outright defiance earned from Radu Vladislas, and she could not fathom what that kind of demonstration would mean in public.

Radu leaned forward once more, putting himself on a level with Ash; she realized, as she stood behind him, that she and Ash were nearly eye to eye. She wasn't _that _tall, but... _people were smaller then, _she thought inanely. _What a terrible, hulking thing he must have been back then... _She struggled to get a grip on herself, to stop her mind from babbling, but she was stricken with panic. Radu was going to do _something, _and if Ash's behavior was any indication, he would fight back... they were going to tear into each other, right here, in front of all these people, _into _these people, and there was nothing she could do about it, no way she could ever hope to—

“Hmf.” It was a quiet, breathy sound, scarcely audible over the noise of the crowd, but so close she could not fail to notice it; she whipped her head around to find that Cassandra had somehow eeled her way around to arrive beside Michelle. “They are _so _tedious when they disagree.”

Michelle gaped at her; Cassandra had never seemed particularly aware of her surroundings, but to hear such a light dismissal from her lips... Cassandra flashed her a gamine smile as she reached out to take Michelle's hand; too startled—and to wary of the attention it might draw—to protest, she let her. Cassandra squeezed her gently, and it was all she could do to repress a shudder; she could feel every single bone against her hand. She did not want to think too hard about what now lay beneath that glove.

Cassandra drew her away from the confrontation very slowly, a light shuffle of feet each time; somehow, she managed to thread them both between the moving bodies that surrounded them. Radu remained bent over Ash, speaking into his ear; Ash's face remained neutral, but his fingers flexed slightly. He had released Iris, who remained nearby; she watched Michelle and Cassandra with a covetous intensity.

Suddenly, Michelle was jerked away as Cassandra tugged on her arm; she stumbled forward as Cassandra spun her around, moving in and laying her free hand on the small of Michelle's back. “What are you _doing?_” Michelle hissed, as Cassandra brought her closer.

Cassandra simply smiled as she pulled them both away; Michelle was forced to follow her, awkwardly, as Cassandra moved backward before spinning them both around. “I am waltzing,” she responded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world; she shifted her grip on Michelle's hand, raising it to shoulder height. “You would be too, if you would follow,” she added, with a faint note of reproval. “I'm _good _at leading.”

Too stunned to object, Michelle simply let Cassandra do as she would; the smaller woman had them floating gracefully through the crowd, swaying gently. “_So _tedious,” Cassandra repeated. “And we have such pretty music tonight.” Heads were beginning to turn, and Michelle could scarcely imagine what a sight they made; bodies seemed to melt away as they approached, unwilling to impede whatever strange, unearthly progress was being made. Michelle expected to hear Radu's angry snarl, to feel a clawed hand on her back, at any moment; but when she scanned the room as Cassandra spun them once more, she could not catch sight of Radu and Ash at all.

This close to Cassandra, it was easy to see the damage that had been done to her. Her makeup was almost good enough to fool someone from a few steps away, but Michelle could now see it sliding against itself, layered on so thickly Cassandra might have used a trowel. She lowered her eyes when she sensed Michelle's scrutiny, a faint smile playing around her lips. As absurd as the situation might be, she was so very clearly enjoying herself; as ruined and wracked as her body might be, she could still move like a flower caught in spider silk.

“I was thinking,” Cassandra said, “that you might like to see Ash's private gallery.”

“Gallery? Cassandra, I—”

“It's very special,” she continued brightly, as if Michelle hadn't spoken. “He is not very generous about showing it to those from outside, but—I think you might like to see it.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself, and fixed Michelle with a bland, helpful expression. “You have time now, I think. They—well.” She gave a tiny, rueful shrug, as if discussing disobedient boys, her smile remaining immobile; but as Michelle stared at her blankly, it began to wilt. “On the sixth level, below the storehouse? It is... I only... I do such silly things, sometimes...”

“Cassandra,” Michelle breathed, as ideas began to tick over in her mind, balances owed and favors due. What could be more special than a vanquished foe? But this was _Cassandra, _who'd spent the last century in a basement, spawn of her enemy... who'd always been friendly, whose life she'd saved... who might well think the chance to see an original Renoir was adequate repayment. “Would you like to... show it to me?”

Cassandra immediately ducked her head and closed her eyes, shaking her head briefly. “It is easy to find. It's only that...” She shook her head once more, before looking up at Michelle, and her gaze was so fraught that Michelle _knew_ she was guessing correctly. It might not necessarily be Zachary, but there was something down there, something that meant Cassandra realized more about what was going on than her master ever had; more than Michelle had ever given her credit for.

“I think I will,” she heard herself respond.

“Oh, good!” Cassandra stopped abruptly, clasping her hands together with unfeigned delight; Michelle realized that Cassandra had led them back to the lair entrance without her realizing it. “You had best make haste.” She smiled, and dropped Michelle a small curtsey; before she had a chance to respond, Cassandra had already turned and left.

“Cassandra!” The woman raised her fingers and gave Michelle a jaunty little wave; but she did not so much as a glance backwards; instead, she raised both arms, clasping them above her head in a practiced arch of sinew and bone. She rose, slowly, as if levitating—_her toes, _Michelle realized—before stretching one leg and leaping back into the press of bodies with the feral, coiled grace of a lioness.

Michelle stood and stared after her for a moment, dumbfounded, touched, terrified; she knew what this meant—knew what she _thought _it meant, but if she were wrong... Never mind her loyalty to Ash, there was no reason to assume she wasn't angry about what had happened, no call to suspect that this had been anything other than an elegant way to lead her into a trap... Yet she had trusted Zachary, too, as stupid a decision as it might have been. She could simply be compounding her foolishness, hastening herself toward a terrible end; or she could be wasting precious seconds of a rare, unlooked for opportunity.

Spinning on her heel, she opened the door and darted through, slamming it shut behind her and twisting the mechanism as hard as she could. She braced her feet, leaning into it with every ounce of force she possessed. She could feel the metal straining beneath her hands, but came to realize she couldn't break it; not quickly enough, anyway. It wouldn't be enough to stop them—not for long—but it might buy her a precious moment that might mean everything.

After that, she simply ran, yanking the doors shut behind her as she went. The sixth level, like the third, did not have a door on the stairwells they had been using, but she and Radu had climbed _up _from the tunnel they had arrived via; she was fairly confident she could find her way back.

She tried to anticipate what she might find as she ran, struggling to arrange the scraps of information she had into some measure of wholeness. Zachary arrives; Dmitri is probably killed in the struggle; Ash defeats him and confines him in the dungeon... why? Why allow such a dangerous, brazen enemy to survive, even if only for a little longer?

Was she going to inspect a corpse?

Where was Sofia? She had been in Ash's chambers the night before but, try as she might, Michelle had been able to detect no sign of her presence. Could Ash have moved her down there as well for some reason? It would be the first bit of real luck Michelle had experienced yet—less running through the labyrinths, at least—but it didn't make sense, not unless... She bared her fangs, peeling her lips back from her teeth. She gave them too much credit, still expected them to behave in a fairly normal fashion; yet Radu had arranged a situation in which she'd been forced to fight her own friends. Watching a would-be rescuer tortured to death was probably viewed as an excellent way to demonstrate the realities of the situation to the newly initiated. She banished the thought, and the terrible specter of failure it brought with it; all she could do was hurry, and hope that she was in time.

She dashed through the door to the fifth level as if she were crossing a triumphant finish line; in her haste to turn and grab the door, she slipped, sending herself skidding into a large, solid mass—the stacks of crates they'd worked their way through. Cursing herself mentally, she slammed the door behind her, knowing she'd given up any pretense to stealth she might have had. The idea that there were more vampires she hadn't met that might be standing guard was too dreadful—too ruinous—to allow herself to contemplate, but that didn't mean there wasn't anything else down here that she might do better to avoid. Still, there was freedom, even anticipation, in for once being able to face a situation head on; she could at least find out something of what was ahead of her.

She opened her mouth, drawing breath to call out for Zachary—and stopped, suddenly cautious. There was a certain, familiar scritching emerging from the darkness nearby. It might truly be rats—there was plenty of paper to chew and nest in down here—but that sound would never mean anything but subspecies to her, ever again. She held still, peering into the stacks of crates as best she could, but could detect no sign of mammal or monster. She had never been able to determine just what connection Radu had to the little creatures, but the idea that he might be watching her, even now...

...wasn't the end of the world, not necessarily. She might be grasping at straws, but she was suddenly, deeply grateful for having kept her mouth shut, and deeply sympathetic with Cassandra's circuitous method of speech. Sneaking around Ash's private domain was damning in itself, but nowhere near as great a sin as calling out to the captured foe by name. Perhaps she _had _simply been hoping to get a glimpse of some priceless artifacts. It was a thin, threadbare excuse, but it might be enough, if Radu were willing to accept it in lieu of losing face in front of Ash...

...assuming he didn't kill Ash over whatever private grievance was being carried out upstairs...

Of course; it was as clear as glass, if her assumptions were correct. If Zachary really was down here, alive, or nearly so, the great vampire slayer was probably something of a prize; even if Ash's fury at him was purely personal, it was not something he would want Radu interfering with. He had chafed ever more visibly since their arrival; Michelle could not fault him for being unhappy at Radu's presence after what had certainly seemed like a long absence. But to then have him intrude on what Ash might feel was a family matter... the thought was almost cheering. They might do each other more damage than she could ever dream of inflicting herself.

Michelle hurried through the stacks of boxes, threading her way through with no goal in mind but the other end of the room. They had come up a short slope in the tunnel, before slipping through the gap in that oddly doubled wall; Ash and Iris had been arguing, even then. She could remember no other egress in the tunnel, but if the entrance to the sixth level was not there, then she was in very bad trouble.

She finally slipped free of the maze, laying her hands flat on the damp, sweating bricks, feeling them crumble slightly beneath her touch with something akin to relief. They had emerged in the middle of the wall... somewhere near the middle... with her hands splayed before her like a blind woman, she began to feel her way along the wall, trusting her fingers to discover what her eyes could not. Gratifyingly soon, her left hand found an edge; practically flinging herself around, she straightened her shoulders and sidled through the gap.

The tunnel was as she remembered it; rough, rude stones piled atop one another, surmounting a floor scattered with dirt, illuminated only fitfully by the occasional gas light. Her eyes scanned the dim, dank environs, hoping for some sign of—_there. _A few hundred yards down the tunnel, the opposite wall was pierced by what she was willing to bet was another one of the point-topped doors that had marked their progress from the cemetery; she hadn't seen it because they hadn't passed it, and she had been too petrified to look around.

She ran down the tunnel and darted through the door. It gave out onto a small antechamber, whose other end was given over to a sight that made her heart sink. The door was nearly a mirror image of the one that shielded Radu's lair, slabs of steel that stood taller than her head. It featured the same circular valve that granted access, but she had no idea whether it locked or not, but could not imagine Ash's paranoia would allow him to neglect such a basic function.. There was no way she could ever hope to penetrate such a thing, even if she had all night to batter at it.

Michelle dismissed such thoughts from her head. Rolling her sleeves up, she stepped forward, grasped the valve, and twisted it with all her might; she nearly sobbed in frustration when it did not move so much as a centimeter. She closed her eyes, letting her head sag; this had to be it. One didn't waste such defenses on the wine cellar. She clenched her hands once more, giving the wheel a sharp jerk, hoping against hope; but there was no movement.

She rested her head against the cool metal of the door, thinking. Even if she could find a crowbar, an axe... she wouldn't have the slightest idea what to do with it. But there had to be _something_; she couldn't have come this far simply to be defeated by a _lock... _“What would Zachary do?” she asked herself, cudgeling her brain for some solution, some brilliant trick. She slammed her fist against the door in frustration, forgetting her earlier caution. “_Zachary!_” Empty, dead, ringing silence. “Sofia?” she asked, hopelessly. She gave up and spun around, stalking back out into the tunnel to scan its length for some tool, something she could use, but there was nothing. She turned around to stare at the door, baleful, incensed; to be balked by a door, a simple, stupid—

“Oh, you idiot,” she whispered to herself, a mad, bubbling giggle stealing into her voice. “Oh, you stupid, _stupid—_oh—” The door was set into the wall in the _opposite _direction, the valve was on the _other _side. She rushed to it, seized it, spun it to the right—and it moved as smoothly as silk, the hasp disengaging with a small scrape of metal.

She could have crowed with shocked, idiot glee, but had enough presence of mind to forbid herself the pleasure; the realization that she'd nearly been defeated by a simple, silly logistical issue was almost enough to halt her in her tracks. She was only nervous—near to panicking—she just had to calm down, get hold of herself, and do what she'd come here to do.

The door swung silently on well-oiled hinges; she opened it only a crack before darting inside and pulling it shut behind her. The room within was scarcely larger than the tunnel itself had been, and seemed nearly as long, but was much better lit; the walls were studded with actual lamps, the flames almost entirely enclosed in glass balls, rather than bare pipe as they had been outside. There had been some attempt at decorating made; musty, moth-eaten swags of fabric hung from the walls here as well, though they were more reminiscent of the age-devoured remnants in Radu's lair than the elegant silks and velvets of the club upstairs. But the room—the hall—was packed nearly full with rectangular, thin crates of all sizes, leaving only a narrow aisle in the center to walk down.

Michelle advanced cautiously, her eyes constantly moving. Cassandra had said this was a gallery, and as far as Michelle could tell, she had been mostly right; she could not imagine what the oddly-shaped boxes might contain, besides paintings, and there were more of them than she could easily count. Was this a special sort of warehouse, then, where parts of his collection reposed as his whims cycled through them them? Or was this a stronghold, meant to guard treasures he did not even trust his own fledglings to have access to?

The latter rang eerily, gut-wrenchingly true. Greed, devastating, all-consuming; the same kind of emotion that might caused a self-professed patron of the arts to enslave some of its finest practitioners, condemning them to a life that would prevent the world from ever knowing their genius.

She hurried onward.

The hall gave out onto small rooms at intervals, two on either side, facing one another; though they only housed more crates, she could see the rusted remains of iron bars in the corners of their wide entrances. Larger versions of the cells in Radu's lair, once meant for wholesale confinement, rather than private amusements. She did not dare pass by them without inspecting them, but she wasted little time on examining their contents.

As she moved further inward, her path became less cluttered, more civilized. The crates were restricted to their cells; here and there paintings were actually hung. Was there an actual gallery here, deep beneath the streets, or an abandoned attempt at one? The crates might simply be carried far enough down the hall that they no longer obstructed movement as they arrived... but no, there were definite signs of arrangement here and there, increasing in frequency as she moved further. More paintings were hung interspersed with tapestries gone dim with age, rough tables bore vases and small sculptures; one of the cells contained a massive confusion of steel beams wound around each other that might have been an Impressionist sculpture, or a device for unspeakable torture. She stopped to examine it, half-expecting to find bones cradled in its twisting arms; finding none did not prove as much of a relief as she had hoped.

The thought of it lurked in the back of her mind as she moved away from it. Cassandra danced, Dmitri painted; had there once been a sculptor? She could not imagine what other kind of mind could produce such an ominous collection of metal, something that seemed almost non-Euclidean in its menace.

She was reaching the end of the hall now; she could see a blank stone wall a few hundred yards ahead of her, nearly obscured by tall, scaffolding-like shapes draped in white cloth leaning against it. Her pace quickened as she grew closer; those cloths might well shroud a door, which might lead her to... anything. She had heard nothing yet; not a sob, not a sigh of pain, not even a muffled scrape she could try to convince herself was the whisper of indrawn breath. If Cassandra had lead her astray, she was doomed; the only hope she'd have would be the chance to talk herself out of her snooping.

So lost in her thoughts of creeping, impending doom was she that when she finally encountered the true horror that awaited her, she nearly walked right past it, tucked away in its cell.

It was so wrenchingly, unspeakably _awful _that it was almost too much for her mind to encompass; the sheer _alienness _of such incomprehensible agony made it almost tolerable; scientific; something to examine, to explore, to attempt to make sense of.

This wasn't a gallery. It was a studio.

She had never realized that Zachary was so tall. The way he stood hunched, the collar of his heavy coat pulled around his shoulders, it was easy to see that he stooped deliberately; but seeing him stretched out at full length, even with his head lolled forward, it seemed that he might even be taller than Radu.

_Why is he stretched out?_

His arms were spread at the shoulders, straight angles from his body; his legs were slightly akimbo. It was almost familiar, but no one, not even a vampire, could balance that precisely on their heels.

_He isn't standing._

No, he wasn't. He seemed to float, almost as Cassandra had done, but as she stepped forward, she could see that his boots dangled a few inches above the floor.

_Why is he stretched out?_

Because someone had taken sharpened wooden spars, probably pried from the ruined painting crates scattered around the cell—here was the crowbar she had wanted so badly—and shoved them into him, one above and beneath each joint, wedging them deeply into the cracks between the stone blocks that made up the walls. Zachary hung there, mounted like a butterfly.

No. Not quite. Ash was an admirer of the fine arts; this was Michelangelo, the famous drawing of human anatomy. As if to make up for the lack of extra limbs, Ash had opted to drive the point home by—she wasn't sure what she was looking at, didn't _want to _be sure; the red, wet mess that a flap of skin carefully peeled away from Zachary's abdomen revealed.

She could not bear to see any more, but she did not look away; she did not dare draw a breath, lest she smell the corruption his ruin had brought. He could not be alive; nothing could survive such a thorough... _jointing._

He really had come. He really had attempted to do what he'd said he would; but he had failed, utterly and miserably. There was no sign of Sofia, or of the sword; only the wreck of a fallen hero.

There was no room for words, for inchoate thought. She could only stare. Even moments before, her mind had still teemed with plans for extricating herself from the situation she'd gotten herself into, even as deep as she'd gone; but now, face to face with the desolate end of all hopeful dreams, there was only blankness. She had never expected... never thought... She had known they were vicious, violent creatures... had experienced enough of it that she had been willing to make such a terrible gamble in the hopes of saving an innocent from them... but to see such wretched torment enacted on someone else; to stand confronted with the gruesome, bloody finality of it...

She stepped forward, her feet carrying her of their own volition. She didn't know him, not really; had doubted him up until the very last. But he had come through; he had proven himself to be a kindred spirit, if of a rough kind. Her eyes sought out a clean patch on the bloodstained shirt he wore; she laid her palm against his chest, finally letting her eyes drift close. “I'm sorry,” she whispered; little solace, but the best she could offer.

“Wondered if you had... come to gloat.”

Michelle stiffened; for half a moment she thought the words had come from behind her, but as her hand involuntarily clenched on his shirt, a deep, hacking rattle issued from his chest, its vibrations palpable against her skin. Her eyes flew open, to find him regarding her with one hazy blue eye; she couldn't decide whether she wanted to punch him or kiss him. She settled for grinning, the most honest, sincere smiles she'd felt in weeks; months. “You and your...” She laughed, stepping back; had to resist the urge to clap her hands. “Oh...” But this wasn't good, not yet, nowhere near yet; this was still a terrible setback. “How do I get you down?”

Zachary closed his eyes, head lolling on his chest once more; for an awful moment she thought the effort of speech had been too much for him, until she saw the tips of his fingers twitch. “Hands first.”

She moved closer, peering at the spars that pierced him, hard-pressed to tell where flesh ended and blood-soaked wood began; the edges of the wounds were so ragged it was as if the thin pieces of crate had been twisted as they'd been shoved into him.

No, no, no, don't think of that. Without letting herself contemplate the gravity of his injuries any further, she grasped the end of the first spar firmly. She closed her eyes, refusing to allow herself to see what she was about to do; keeping the wood as straight as she could, she pulled it free with a quick, sharp jerk.

And so it began.

It was hard, grisly work, in its own way more dreadful than any murder she had ever committed; this was _torture_, deliberate wounds, deliberate harm, even if she was only undoing its aftermath. It would have been better, in some ways, if he had screamed; she could have understood pain, understood that kind of expression of suffering, if only because there would soon be an ending, and it was a way of enduring. The short, half-keening grunts he occasionally gave voice to were so much worse; so unpredictable, so unlike anything she would have expected.

He collapsed on top of her once she had freed his arms, and for a moment she was certain that she had killed him; the weight of his body toppling, the terrible wound in his belly—she was not certain what it was that hit her shoulder. _Then _he screamed, a hoarse, coughing bark; she half-knelt, supporting him as best she could, until he gave her leave to continue.

The pair above and below his left knee had been done hastily; they splintered beneath her grasp, leaving sharp, piercing shards in their wake.

But all things must come to an end. Eventually she was able to kneel beside him, one hand bracing his ribs, and slip her other arm beneath his thighs; slowly, carefully, she eased him to the floor, using her knee to nudge his legs so that he sat with his legs splayed before him. He nodded a few times, all the thanks he could muster; his eyes were closed, his head resting against his shoulder. Speech seemed to be beyond him, but she could not offer him the luxury of recovery. “Is Sofia down here with you?”

He nodded again, so loosely she wondered if it were not an unconscious continuation of his earlier gesture until he licked his lips; his mouth worked for a moment before he was able to answer. “She... was. She was... screaming. I think...” His left arm flopped feebly, a puppet with its strings cut. “Down there... at the end...”

She caught her lip between her incisors, thinking. Her ally was not utterly defeated, but had been mutilated into uselessness; he would heal quickly, but she did not think he could heal quickly enough. She knew she could drag a human into the shadows with her—Radu could, at any rate, and desperation was often the mother of invention—but she had no idea how she was supposed to escape with both of them when Zachary couldn't even stand.

But he was still speaking. “I... walked, I... walked down here, I let him...” His head sagged once more; her skin prickled with the implications.

“Zach, don't worry about it. Just relax for a minute, then we can go get her.”

“Can't.” He did his best to flap a hand at her. “Can't.”

“If you can't walk, can't you fly? Be a shadow?”

He grimace could have been annoyance or pain. “Never could. Just...” He rasped again, that unnerving rattle that wasn't quite a cough; the sound of something rent and bleeding inside. His eyes were open, blue and baleful and utterly riveting. “Go,” he said. When she remaining kneeling, he punched her lightly on the thigh. “_Go._”

“I can't just leave you here—” But her protest was feeble; even as she spoke, she knew that was precisely what she was going to have to do if they were to salvage anything from this terrible night. _I can tell Radu he frightened me so badly I fled, _she thought hysterically, as she rose to one knee. Her shock was finally leaving. There was something to do, something to save; there was still a _chance._

“You can. Go. _Get._”

“Oh, I was _so _hoping from something like this!” Michelle was on her feet in an instant, turning to place her back against the wall, but she already knew what she'd see; Ash's silken, mellifluous voice was unmistakable, even when suffused with unrestrained glee. He leaned casually against the entrance to the cell with his legs crossed, an avid, amused look on his face; his smile widened even further as his gaze met hers. “I'd thought that Judith and Holofernes might have made a better presentation, but... the puissant swain self-sacrificing so that his lover might save herself... how Shakespearean! How _operatic.”_ He extended his left hand with a flourish, as if commending their performance.

From his right dangled the Blade of Laertes, as casually as he might have held a walking stick.

He straightened; Michelle suppressed the instinct to put herself between him and Zachary and merely stood, watchful, unable to formulate a response. Ash did not seem to require one; he gave every evidence of enjoying himself thoroughly.

“I have misliked you from the first, but Radu has always been a fool for a pretty woman; I thought perhaps you might limit yourself to more prosaic schemes, but... treachery! Murder! Truly, this kind of betrayal is... why, it's nothing short of spectacular!” He laughed delightedly, twirling the sword. “I might even admire your cunning, had you not caused me such great difficulty; _really, _now... I had intended to placate him with the head of the Pilgrim, but now... why, it may even please him so much he will forgive me for what I am about to do.”

The sword's tip was at her throat in an eyeblink; she could feel the movement of air along the delicate fold beneath her chin. Memories of Cassandra's rotting, oozing torso flashed before her mind, and it was all she could do not to whimper; a nick, a _scratch_, and she would die in torment. Yet she did not dare to so much as blink; she and Ash regarded each other across the length of the blade. He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“You know _nothing_,” she said.

Ash blinked. “Don't I?”

She wanted to close her eyes; to block out the world as much as she could, and pretend she was simply giving a speech. Instead, somehow, she was able to meet him stare for stare, her gaze never wavering. “Did you truly think that someone like the Pilgrim could escape the master's notice? That we don't have better things to do than waste our time in a... _tavern?_” Ash's eyes narrowed; she plunged onward. “We came here _hunting _for him, to destroy him just as I did Nicolescu. And you thought you could interfere? Could _conceal_ him from us?” She let her eyes close; hoped that Zachary was smart enough to realize what she was doing; hoped the expression on her face was closer to a smile than it felt like as she opened them again. “Choose your path with care, Ash. You might be able to best me with a sword in your hand... but the master will seek you out as relentlessly as he did this one.”

Not bad, for an extemporaneous speech with a blade against her throat; Ash had at least watched silently, avidly. She had bought a few more moments for... what? Zachary couldn't stand; what was he going to do, trip Ash? A few more moments... something to fill them with...

“Your bravado is quite impressive; it's an excellent story... or would be, if it took into account the fact that I've been _listening _to the two of you.” The tip of the sword lifted slightly, forcing her chin higher to avoid its touch; his arm never wavered. “If you can get Radu to swallow such tripe, I must commend you further, but I am afraid I am not willing to indulge you so. In fact—”

Her arm went numb, the tingling fire lancing up from her fingertips the only sensation that indicated it was still attached; the crowbar still vibrated in her hand, ringing with the sword's blow. She'd never really thought she'd be able to get it in time; she wasted a few precious seconds on confusion, only just managing to slither out of the way of his next blow. She felt the whisper of split air against her shoulder; saw, with dim, anxious amazement, one of her own dark curls go fluttering to the ground.

Michelle held the slender metal bar in front of her; a ridiculous weapon, even had she had any idea how to fight with it, but better than her bare hands against someone with centuries' worth of experience in possession of the most lethal weapon their kind knew. She leaned fractionally to the right; if she could somehow circle Ash, get him to put his back towards Zachary, give her a clear shot at the hallway—a quick, darting thrust of the blade quickly disabused her of that notion.

But it had been easier to dodge than she had expected, particularly since she had been fairly certain it was coming. She couldn't discount the idea that Ash was merely toying with her, but if this was anything to go on, he wasn't faster than she was; at least, not by much. She could make a break for it, hope the blade couldn't hurt her while she was in shadow form, hope that he wouldn't stab Zachary before turning to chase her, and do... what? Something. Take advantage of the extra room to maneuver. _Anything._

She feinted at Ash with the crowbar; he did not even do her the courtesy of moving to guard against it. _Damn. _But his gaze flicked toward Zachary, and though she did not dare to take her eyes from a moment, it heartened her. Even if he wasn't capable of doing much, Ash didn't necessarily know that; he had to be aware of both of them. Not quite two-on-one, but...

Ash was well aware of that; he stepped to the side with oiled grace, moving to trap her with her back against the corner, arranging the tableau so that he could see both of them at once. If he got much closer, all it would take was one wide sweep of the blade to slaughter both of them; if she darted at him, he would run her through. She heard a soft scrape beside her; Zachary shifting. She met Ash's gaze, icy and precise; no more laughter, no more taunting; simply her own death.

Michelle threw the crowbar at him.

She did not even remain to see if it hit; the instant the metal left her hands she dissolved, melding into the shadows and rocketing towards the entry. Someone shouted. She heard the clang of metal on stone, followed by a much louder, sharper repetition as she flowed into the hall, but felt nothing. She would never forget the unnatural feeling of Radu's claws sinking into her while she had flitted along the wall, but she had encountered blades so sharp you never knew you had been cut, until you saw the blood. This might be the same.

It didn't matter. She hurtled through the hallway, flickering over crates and flagstones alike, speed her only concern. She threw her senses open as wide as they could go, too desperate to be dazzled by the wealth of information they inundated her with; Zachary, Sofia, a swarm of rats and, of course, Ash. He too had slipped his skin, scything along after her; she knew his fury, his hatred, his implacable need to destroy.

She knew distrust. Displeasure. Irritation, movement—and sharp, unpleasant, surprise.

Had she possessed a voice, she would have laughed. She was still doomed; she could not imagine how she could win her way free, but—she flew onward, pursuing her only option with the tenacity of the damned. The enemy of her enemy was her friend; she had never expected to long for him, but—

—she slammed into the steel door barring the end of the hallway.

Precious seconds ticked away as she swirled against it, seeking a crack to seep through, but Ash had built his stronghold well. By the time she realized her error and resumed her flesh, it was already too late; the sword was shearing through the air, striking sparks from the metal she was diving away from.

“_MASTER!”_

She choked on the word, cut off in mid-cry as she jerked away from Ash's slash at her abdomen. He stood between her and the door now, his shoulders set, his face expressionless. He struck at her again and again, so fast the eye could scarcely follow; she backed down the hallway, step by painful step, avoiding each blow by a miraculous fraction. She stumbled over a crate, managed to catch her balance and kick it into Ash's path; the sword bit through it like paper.

There was nothing for her but retreat; every ounce of her concentration was required to stay that death-defying moment ahead of Ash. She couldn't do this much longer; all Ash had to do was get lucky once, and she was going to die screaming. Michelle jerked her hand back only just in time, fell back another step, and felt the yawn of open space behind her.

At her wit's end, she dove back into the cell; if Zachary had gotten up, if he could do something—

The sword passed before her face, so fast it appeared as a solid silver blur, close enough to leave her blinking at the afterimage. In her haste to fling herself away she stumbled, her feet tangling themselves, and fell to the floor with a crash. Ash thrust the sword point-down, which missed impaling her calf by a hairsbreadth; she kicked out savagely, managing to catch him in the shins. He staggered backwards, but recovered himself quickly; he raised the sword with a flourish, preparing an overhand chop—

She heard the rolling, echoing boom of metal on stone; thought, for a moment, that it must be the sound of a sword splitting her skull. But Ash still stood poised; he glanced to his right—

—and a long, bony hand wrapped itself around his throat.

“This is not,” Radu purred, “what I would consider a conciliatory gesture.”

He wrenched Ash backwards, wrapping his free arm around his waist; his talons dug into Ash's right wrist, digging methodically. She watched Ash's grip on the sword tighten, his knuckles seeming seeming ready to burst through his skin; Radu gave a sharp jerk, and Ash's fingers loosened all at once, their tendons severed. The sword fell from his hand, landing on the stone floor with a ringing clang.

“Master,” he choked, struggling for breath past Radu's pulverizing grip, “_master—”_

Radu shook him roughly, quelling him into silence; he turned to survey the cell with blank, hooded eyes. Michelle watched him carefully, hoping for some sign of his thoughts; the fact that he had intervened with Ash was good—was _everything—_but—

—she suddenly saw how it would go, plain as day, and could only pray that she had the nerve to do it.

She struggled to keep her face free of emotion, and quickly gave up; she had every reason to be scared, angry, nervous. She could not bring herself to speak; she simply watched Radu, met his gaze when he looked at her. Waited. Hoped.

After an endless moment, he returned his attention to Ash. “You have spoken truly of at least one thing,” he growled, loosening his grip fractionally.

“And I shall speak of another—master, she is con—”

No more time. Don't think, don't worry, don't let him speak; just do.

Rolling onto her side, Michelle snatched up the Blade of Laertes in the same movement. She rose to one knee, adding that small bit of momentum to every thread of strength her body could muster, and drove the sword into Ash's belly.

It went in smoothly, its motion easy; she shoved harder, bracing against the floor. Something scraped against the blade; she wrapped her other hand around its narrow hilt and leaned against it. Meat. Only meat. A choking gurgle. Another scrape. Another shove. Another small bit of resistance; then blood drops, pattering slowly on the floor.

She let go of the sword.

A moment later, the sound of two bodies hitting the ground; the scrape of steel, instead of bone.

She knelt. She could not look. Could not believe.

It could not have been that easy.

Nothing ever was.

She forced herself to her feet, after a time; made herself stand, and regard what she had wrought. Ash was moveless, his face twisted into a paroxysm of agony, the sword jutting from just beneath his ribcage. She took hold of its hilt with both hands and yanked, expecting more resistance, and nearly stumbled backwards when it came free easily. Just like carving a roast.

She kicked his body aside, rolling it to the ground in a boneless tangle. It was hard to tell, black skin against black jacket, but she was fairly certain she could see the beginnings of the rot around the wound she'd inflicted. He was dead, or as good as.

Radu was not.

She did not flinch when he raised his hands to cover the hole in his gut; his movements were slow, feeble. He stared up at her, his eyes rheumy, his lips pursed with pain. But that was only injury; the look in his eyes... shock, agony... dumbfounded, hurt betrayal.

“Michelle,” he whispered.

She could not bear to see that look on his face, to hear that catch in his voice.

The sword rose and fell once more.

And again. And again.

It was quite a while before she was finished.

Meat. Only meat.

But even that wasn't enough. It was not that easy; nothing ever was. She leaned the sword against the entrance to the cell and smoothed her hands down her stomach, thinking. Trying not to imagine what it must have felt like. There wasn't much to work with her, but—ah. Her fingers brushed against one of the buttons. She knew there'd been a reason to wear the coat.

She unbuttoned it methodically; took a moment to feel around in the lining; found the melted bit of jewelry and pulled it out. It seemed almost insignificant, now; she had such a better piece of metal now, one that had proved far more useful. But she had carried it this far; she might as well keep it. She shoved it into the pocket of her trousers and shrugged the coat off.

As she turned, she caught sight of Zachary; she had almost forgotten him. He still sat propped against the wall, but had managed to raise one leg, bent-kneed against his chest. He watched her. She could not think of what to say to him; so she watched him back.

“I am sorry I ever doubted,” he said softly.

One corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. She had not liked the notion of having to prove herself to him, not after all she'd been through; but, though he had not proved to be terribly helpful, she would never have dreamed of attempting what she had were it not for his impetus. She couldn't dislike him. “Sofia's here,” she said as she stepped out into the hall.

One of the gas lamps was right beside the cell entrance; she had to stand on tiptoe to reach it, but the glass smashed easily beneath her fist, leaving the tiny golden flame within unprotected.

“I know.”

She hefted the coat in her arms, and turned to regard her night's work; turned back to the lamp. Grabbing the tail of the coat, she tossed it over the edge of the mess she'd made; with another careful toss, she hooked the collar of the coat over the gas jet. The fabric began to brown almost immediately; it should be enough of a fuse to do what was necessary. “You should go and get her, Zach.”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

She turned back to regard him, displeased with the annoyance in his tone. Able to bend his knee or not, he was a ruin. She couldn't see any way he was going anywhere, short of being carried.

She had not seen them parting like this. In the street, perhaps; perhaps fleeing together, peeling off from a mad dash for safety. But it was easier, in its way. He couldn't rise. Couldn't oppose her.

“I don't care,” she said.

Zachary straightened; the sword was in her hand, quicker than thought; she leveled the point at him. “I... I just... I'm done,” she said, backing away. “I'm done.”

And realized that, for the first time since she had found herself plunged into the nightmare that her life had become, it was true. She could come and go as she pleased. No one could command her. No one could require anything of her. No one could _force _her. What had been a cherished, private dream had abruptly become her new reality.

Free.

Something she'd never really believed she would ever be again.

Free.

She had thought it would feel better.

It didn't matter. Corpses didn't matter. The smoldering look of rage on Zachary's face didn't matter. The girl at the end of the hallway... she mattered to Zachary, and that would have to be enough; his dull, unending fury would have to carry them a little farther. Michelle had no more strength for the needss of others.

Free.

She melted away into the darkness, flowing along the hallway like a breath of air.


	10. Chapter 10

Michelle had never actually followed the road leading to the mouth of the castle.

She and Mara and Lilian had made a hike of it, walking across the gently rolling fields of grass, aimlessly wending their way towards the great stone hulk that dominated the horizon. It had been a lovely autumn day; still warm enough to be pleasant, and no frost had come yet to strangle the late summer flowers in their beds. The breeze had been chilly, carrying a hint of dampness, and the promise of winter to come; but it had only lent the afternoon a touch of the exotic, strange enough to be titillating, familiar enough to be comforting in the strange land they'd found themselves in.

After that, there had been no need. She had other ways of traveling. Better things to worry about.

But it was that road she walked now, gravel and dirt crunching beneath her boots. She could not have said why she did; there were plenty of reasons not to. Even this far out in the country, this long after the good and the just should have been enjoying the sleep of the righteous, a few lights still burned amongst the tiny buildings of Prejnar. Someone might see her. Someone might ask questions. Karl certainly would have, had he noticed; would have come running out in his pajamas, if necessary, to ward off interlopers under the guise of a bluff, territorial caretaker. Karl had taken his duties seriously.

But Karl was dead now; Mara and Lilian along with him. But so too were the Vladislas, masters of the castle that must never be interfered with, particularly after dark; and so it was safe. Nothing was left that could injure.

The castle's walls rose dark and gray against the bulwark of the night; nothing it to distinguish it from its own kind, no architectural marvels, save for the sheer, unbridled _will _that had caused such an imposing structure to be raised here, so far from any earthly reason such a stronghold might be required. In its own way, it was as unnatural as its scions. Its smooth, age-worn stone nearly gleamed in the moonlight; the soft white flakes of snow that had begun to fall seemed to disintegrate against it, staining its gray to black with their passing.

The road wound gently serpentine, its curves not quite switchbacks. A man with an oxcart could have navigated this with little trouble, but an army, hauling siege weapons that rolled balkily on discs of hewn trees? Perhaps not. They would have had to take the road, regardless; the spongy grasslands would never have sufficed. The inhabitants would have had plenty of notice of their coming. Plenty of time to mount a defense, to pepper the intruders with arrows and splash them with boiling oil. Plenty of opportunities to buy time, to wait for the castle's most savage defense to rise from its crypts, and render the point moot.

The portcullis loomed before her, twice her height, rusted iron that had probably been in place before the birth of her native country. Michelle shifted the strap of the case on her shoulder as she regarded it. There had to be some sort of mechanism for its release, but she could not fathom it. There were easier ways to enter the castle, like the rotten wooden door Lilian had thrust her arm through, and sealed their fates in the doing; but she could not remember where they stood, and had no patience to go searching.

She took a step forward. An observer might have blinked and rubbed their eyes, but would have dismissed what they'd seen quickly enough; the gaps in the bars must be wider than they appeared, or perhaps one had rusted away at an angle not quite visible to the viewer. Surely that woman had not simply walked right through the portcullis.

Which is, of course, exactly what Michelle had done. But there was no one to see, and even if there had been, it was so much easier to blend in. At best, a hiker gone astray, at worst, a cheap backpacker looking for a place to spend the night; no one who wasn't being paid to do so would look twice at a young woman in flannels and jeans, carrying a satchel.

Which it wasn't, not precisely; she suspected the long, thin, cylindrical case was meant to hold a hunting rifle, or possibly pool cues. She'd robbed a sporting goods store. But it was the right length, and it slung across her back comfortably enough, though the Blade of Laertes' hilt was a little too broad to fit; she'd had to shove it. That might prove troublesome, should she ever need to withdraw it quickly; but, then, the sword was sharp enough that she could probably swing the entire case at someone and achieve the desired effect.

She'd taken a whetstone, too, just in case, not that she really knew how to use one. And the clothes. And the boots. It was so nice to have good rubber treads beneath her feet once more.

They were silent on the flagstones of the courtyard as she passed. The ensemble wasn't quite complete, unfortunately. There was not much in the way of material goods that a woman in Michelle's position required; but those that she did were extremely difficult to come by. Unique.

So she had returned to the birthplace of all her woes, to salvage what she could of them.

She sieved through the heavy oak doors; stopped, stared around herself, drinking the great hall in. She had tried to talk herself out of coming, feebly. She had expected to be unhappy; to be frightened; to shake with the scourging memory of past torments. The cage. The throne. The table. But she didn't. She might have been looking at a museum diorama. It held nothing for her, nothing of her. It was only someplace she'd been.

Michelle didn't expect to find it, not really. He'd scarcely let it out of his hands since she'd known him, but its absence during their sojourn had been conspicuous. Cautious of his ability to protect such a priceless treasure while in the citadel of the enemy, perhaps. Cautious of the fact of its existence becoming public knowledge at all. Yet even if it had been left here, there were a myriad of places it could have been secreted; chests, caskets, mausoleums, secret passages that she was thus far unaware of. She had no intention of searching every crevice of the castle for it; not now, at any rate. She could not see how it could have been stored any where else. She could come back, when the need drove her. There would be time.

But the stone catch yielded easily beneath the pressure of her fingertips; the seemingly solid stone block yawned open, and there it was.

She cocked her head, regarding the Bloodstone. Silver and stone; of itself, it was worthless to her. But the murky, swirling depths of its heart had proved priceless to the Vladislas and those they had fought for it. To her, it represented freedom of a kind that few had ever had the opportunity to enjoy. She wondered if any of the others had put it to the use that she intended; if any of them had truly attempted to live in peace with themselves and the world around it.

She doubted it. Wondered if it was possible. Even now, knowing what she knew, having done the things she had, the idea of licking her sustenance from a _rock _was nearly incomprehensible. But there were far, far stranger things in the world; very, very few opportunities to receive a truly clean slate.

She hooked her fingers through one of its fingers and pulled it from its hiding place almost casually, as she turned to go. She had other things to gather.

The great passageway was silent save for her own movements as she made her way to the library. The Oracle had advised her to take the books, but she had already left those behind; there was a far more prosaic task ahead of her.

It almost seemed silly as she crouched before one of the bookshelves, the case scraping against the floor as she squatted; tiny little details that scarcely seemed relevant to her any more, rules that no longer applied. But she had begun emptying the wallets of her victims long ago, with some vague idea of buying a plane ticket, and it seemed foolish to let her efforts go to waste. Money could not buy happiness, but it could remove a lot of obstacles to it; there might come a day soon when a few drachmas in her fist would serve her better than the sword.

The wad was there, right where she'd left it, squashed between two books so old they would have fallen apart at a touch, had someone attempted to open them; it had seemed as good a place as any. Had he known at all, or simply not cared? It didn't matter. She shoved the bills into her back pocket as she arose, then braced her hands against the small of her back.

This was the hard part. The bad part. The best part.

She was worried she wouldn't be able to find her way. She remembered so little of that night; had been to fraught, too injured, too _starved. _What little she did, she had done her best to erase from her memory; a poor choice, an unworthy act, but the only one that would allow her to retain her sanity. She remembered walking; she remembered climbing; but that was all she really remembered. All she really could.

Something scuttled at her feet.

For a moment she was consumed with inchoate, animal dread, a pure, superstitious, overwhelming terror that paralyzed her beyond thought. Then Michelle's eyes swept the library with predatory intensity; every nook, every cranny, every possible bolt-hole that could have been used. She saw nothing.

Rats. Only rats.

They had died with him. If they hadn't, there was little harm they could do her.

She spun on her heel and left.

Michelle need not have feared her ability to retrace those terrible steps; as intimidating as the inner corridors were, a defensive castle simply could not have an overly complex floor plan, not with the building methods that had been available when it was raised. She remembered which corner of the building it was in; there were only so many places that stairs could have been placed. She found a door. She climbed.

The wind had picked up; as she walked out onto the parapet, snowflakes swirled around her as if they had been shaken in a globe, catching in her hair and patting against her face, clinging to her eyelashes, her lips. They did not melt. It did not matter. She unslung her case, and turned back to set it down inside the tower; tucked the Bloodstone away behind it.

She had a bad moment when the flagstones before her appeared to be empty—him; the wind; a bird; anything—but relaxed when she realized that the snow had fallen heavily enough to cover what she sought with a thin dusting of powder; the gleam of a zipper caught her eye.

Michelle knelt, wetness seeping into her jeans, feeling her way through the snow with as much care as she had ever handled an antiquity. Her fingers brushed leather. She was so scared, so overwhelmed, so happy, that for a long moment she could not make herself move.

Becky's jacket seemed to have survived its experiences largely intact; but it had been in such rough shape to begin with that it was hard to tell where the depredations began and the rigors of wear Becky had subjected it to ended. She brushed it clean of snow with the backs of her knuckles, raising it by its collar, turning it to make sure that ever inch of it was pristine, smooth black.

She sank down, sitting on her heels, and pressed the jacket to her face, inhaling deeply. She could smell sweat, and Guess perfume, and blood, and smoke, and oily, burned fat.

Michelle stayed that way for a long time.

She unfolded it, and felt the lining; it had been in tatters for years, in constant need of mending, for Becky would not stop carrying handfuls of change in the inside pockets no matter how many times they ripped. Michelle fingered a frayed edge, and judged it good; carefully, with the precision of a scientist, she withdrew three long, kinked threads. Laying the jacket reverently across her knees, she began to braid them.

She knotted off both ends, and tugged it; she could rip it, if she needed to, but most people could not do what she could. Satisfied, she slipped a hand into her pocket and extracted Mel's St. Jude's medallion, in all its warped glory; it was the work of a moment to thread it onto her newly made cord. She brushed her hair away and raised her arms, preparing to tie it around her neck, when her sleeve snagged on a collection of beads.

Her fingers followed their contours, searching, thinking. She had long since stopped noticing that she was wearing it; she supposed a dog didn't pay much attention to its collar. It was valuable, for its gemstones, for its age. It might not be a bad thing to have; there might be some way to wrest some good from it.

Michelle ripped it from her neck and flung it over the ramparts.

The medal nestled comfortably against her collarbone.

She stood, shaking the jacket out as she rose, and wrapped it around herself, shrugging into the sleeves. It was a little tight through the shoulders, but the leather was well-worn, lovingly anointed with neat's-foot oil; it would stretch before it would tear. It clung to her body like an embrace.

She shoved her hands into the pockets, their zippered closures scraping the backs of her hands. It was good. She had done what she had come to do.

She reached up to free her hair from the jacket's collar, and flinched at the sudden pain in her ear; she carefully unwound her hair from the earring. She tugged it experimentally, but it did not move; her flesh, having healed, was loath to let go of its prize. She'd forgotten them, too. Forgotten his teeth.

That was fine. They were decoration. They were camouflage. They could stay.

She stepped back into the tower, scooping up the case that held the sword and shouldering it once more. Now that she could no longer feel the strap pressing into her shoulder, she was scarcely aware of its weight. She hefted the Bloodstone, nestling it away in one of the inside pockets; another weight too strong to bear that it accepted without complaint.

She was done here.

She was gone in an eyeblink, the road once more beneath her boots, ready to carry her away instead of towards, this time. The moon was full. The snow swirled down, filling in her tracks even as she made them.

And so it was that Michelle Morgan, clad in the relics of her dead, strode out into the great night.


End file.
